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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25021699">honey just put your sweet lips on my lips (we should just kiss like real people do)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime'>TooManyGaysTooLittleTime</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adarlan does not take over Terrasen in this AU, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Romance, F/F, Mild Smut, Miscommunication, and the Valg aren’t a major plot point in this story, i promise there will be plot, no beta we die like my appreciation of sjm, stan aedion and aelin’s friendship, you can skip it if you wish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:08:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,947</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25021699</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aelin’s marriage to the heir of the Blackbeak Clan is built on politics, not love.</p><p>Never love.</p><p>(Or: Aelin and Manon’s marriage is arranged by their families. Neither of them are particularly happy about it. And that won’t change... right?)</p><p>[<strong>TITLE CHANGE!</strong> formerly “is it real now (when two people become one), i can feel it”]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aedion Ashryver &amp; Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien/Manon Blackbeak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>95</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. AELIN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>first off fuck sjm </p><p>second have some hateful lesbians to bless the overly heterosexual mess that is the tog fandom</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aelin’s nerves about her wedding day are not disparaged by a visit from her cousin—in fact, they’re made worse.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for taking a chance on this! i hope you enjoy</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The white silk of Aelin’s bridal dress is smooth and slippery against her thighs, and when she gathers it anxiously in her hands, the sleek material slides out of her fingers like water.</p><p>She reaches up to touch her veil, adjust the netting over her face. In the mirror, its gilded edges reflecting and distorting her image independently of the main frame, she can tell that she projects the impression of a perfect, demure bride. Everything about her wedding attire is meant to reinforce the idea of her as unthreatening: her hair is loose and runs down her back in soft curls, her sharp blue-gold eyes are softly emphasised by green pigment worked into the lids and the skin around them, and her dress is neither her normal warrior garb nor that of a prostitute. Lace collars her neck and runs over the shoulders of the gown, and silken sleeves are smooth against the roughened muscle of her arms, covering the majority of her body down to the wrists. The bodice hugs her chest and stomach, and melds with the lace across her collarbones to hide any exposed skin. Her skirt and train glide across the floor when she walks, portraying the ideal bride.</p><p>Despite her outwardly innocent appearance, though, a sheath on Aelin’s inner thigh holds a dagger and a tiny bottle on a chain at her throat contains a powder to deliver unconsciousness to one who inhales it via the mouth or nose. She has always been aware of the various types of weapons used by those in the assassins’ trade, seeing as many attempts have been made against her life using those very objects, and Aelin has learned from their methodology. After all, since fighting battles is not deemed a suitable task for a princess, she might as well learn to defend herself from those who would seek to kill her in quieter ways, seeing as they will inevitably try.</p><p>Aelin feels the outline of the dagger upon her thigh, fingers marking out the shape of it. Knowing that she has a means to defend herself in case of an emergency helps her to settle her nerves about the wedding. </p><p>She jumps when the door to her bridal chamber is pushed open, nearly tripping over the hem of her skirt as she stands. Letting out a small, relieved gasp, she settles back onto her plush velvet seat.</p><p>“Aedion, what are you doing in the bridal chamber? People would—<em>talk</em>—” she says, the end whispered conspiratorially.</p><p>Aedion is six years her senior, as yet unwed, although Aelin knows several of his lovers well. There’s the young lord who visits the palace more than he should, the army’s second-in-command who has ended up in Aedion’s bedroll several times before, and the occasional tumble with a prostitute down south of the palace. And although she is aware that his affections for her are no more than brotherly, half the country is so tradition-proud that if they knew that a <em>man</em> had entered the bridal chamber before Aelin’s husband, they would have chased Aedion into the river surrounding Orynth.</p><p>He smiles and reaches to mess up her hair, but pulls back his hand when he touches the finely made netting of her veil. They share a quiet laugh, which is hushed by the insistent tick, tock of the clock on the gilded oak mantelpiece.</p><p>“Cousin,” Aedion says after he has settled onto the rich carpet of the room, his fingers playing with the many-coloured threads of aquamarine and dark gold and deep brown. “I do not wish to bring you any ill will towards this marriage today.”</p><p>Aelin nods and lifts the light-coloured, hollow antler crown onto her brow, settling it atop the veil. She drops her head and lifts her eyes to the mirror to check if it is balanced. Though she acts unconcerned, she notes the way Aedion’s tongue makes his cheek protrude, in a nervous tic from his youth that still plays up on occasion, and anxiousness thrums gently through her.</p><p>“There is talk, however,” Aedion continues, “that your betrothed is a killer. Perhaps not only a killer, but the assassin of the Blackbeak clan.”</p><p>Aelin turns to him and lifts her brows. “And how did you find this out?” While a glimmer of amusement has settled into her golden-blue irises, concern is evident in her stiff, upright posture instead of the languid way she had reclined before.</p><p>“I <em>may</em> have taken a roll under the sheets with one of them,” Aedion confesses, a blush rising across his winter-paled cheeks.</p><p>“Woman or man?” Aelin asks, lifting her skirt to cross her legs.</p><p>“Man,” he confirms, lacing his fingers together atop his thighs. “Don’t think that any of their women would have wanted me if I asked.”</p><p>“Clearly at least somewhat trustworthy, then. All you men don’t know shit about lying. Women are the shifty ones.”</p><p>“<em>Hey</em>!” Aedion complains, his annoyance not genuine. He bites his lip and his eyes flick over to meet Aelin’s again. This time, when he speaks, his voice is quiet and serious. “What are you to do, should your intended indeed be a killer?”</p><p>“I suppose I won’t be able to fight,” Aelin says glumly. She lifts her head and slides her hands under the veil to push her long blonde hair behind her shoulders and down her back. “And running is out of the question. I won’t sabotage the marriage my parents have worked so hard to create. I will simply... wait the marriage out, I guess, wait until he dies and then...” Trailing off, she reaches for the bouquet of flowers in a glass vase upon her dressing table. Aedion gently takes her wrist and shifts her hand away. “Yes, I know, it’s mother only,” she chastises, her voice soft.</p><p>Her cousin swallows, the part of his throat that is exposed under his furs bobbing. “Aelin, be safe.”</p><p>“I will,” she says, tracing the outline of the dagger with her finger for him to see.</p><p>“No, I mean it. And if—Aelin, if he <em>ever</em> treats you badly, I want you to tell me, and I’ll kill him. I swear upon Mala.”</p><p>Aelin nods in response. “That’s assuming I don’t kill him first.”</p><p>A snatch of laughter breaks free from Aedion’s lips as he stands up. “That too.”</p><p>He turns around and makes to leave, walking towards the door of the bridal chamber. Aelin notes the rumples down the backside of his trousers, the messiness of his hair (as if long fingers had pulled and carded through it). Opening the door, he pauses and looks back.</p><p>“I want you to be happy, Aelin,” he says. “And I want you to find the way to your own happiness in this marriage.”</p><p>Her throat is dry as she swallows and nods in reply.</p><hr/><p>“Right,” Evalyn says as she walks in, businesslike as ever. Her hair is arrayed splendidly, several strands twined together in braids tied by green silken ribbons that work across the sides and back of her head while the rest is left loose and flowing over her shoulders and back, but her dress is rather less spectacular, being made of one bolt of green silk and lacking decoration except for golden embroidery at the neckline, wrists and hem. “Are you nearly ready?”</p><p>Aelin nods. Her tongue has seized up in the back of her throat and she doesn’t know what words to use.</p><p>“Good,” Evalyn says as she sets to work on Aelin, inspecting the dress and veil first before checking the balance of the hollowed antler crown. “Dip your head,” she commands, and Aelin drops her chin, eyes falling to her lap, as Evalyn repositions it to sit steadily on her head.</p><p>Aelin looks up after Evalyn’s hands move away from her head, and, tilting her head upwards, sees that her mother is loosening a ribbon from her hair and bringing it to tie around the stems of the flowers in the vase. Evalyn’s fingers are steady and careful, looping the twists of ribbon together and tugging to ensure it stays. A sigh of breath is huffed out as she lifts the bouquet from the vase and hands it to Aelin, who takes it reverently. Her gaze fixes upon the various flowers: sprays of white lily, orange blossom, myrtle, violet and primrose sit atop her hands, giving colour to her wedding ensemble. Aelin understands that the flowers are not merely there to look pretty: instead, they symbolise love, purity, wishes for good luck in marriage. If Aelin had her way, she might have worked a sprig of tansy in there as well, but she understands that she must appear like the innocent, blushing bride that her parents have made her out to be.</p><p>Evalyn smiles sadly as Aelin stands up, her bridal train dragging behind her. “You make us proud, all right?”</p><p>She dips her head in response, her eyes going to her bouquet. “I’ll try,” she says, in a whisper.</p><p>“Go along, now, Rhoe is waiting in the entrance of the church,” Evalyn says, pushing Aelin on with a gentle hand upon her shoulders. She goes willingly, exiting the bridal chamber and turning right to walk towards where her father is positioned. Rhoe smiles at her, fully and genuinely, and Aelin smiles back, although it is pained.</p><p>“You ready?” he asks, extending his arm to her.</p><p>Switching her bouquet to one hand, she loops her left arm within Rhoe’s. “I don’t think I’ll ever be,” she starts, “but I’ll try.”</p><p>Her father adjusts her crown, trying not to tangle in her veil, his touch less careful than Evalyn’s. “All right.”</p><p>Nodding at her, he begins leading her towards the altar. She keeps her steps one pace behind his, letting him go first. Looking over those in the pews, she gives her people warm smiles, attempting to show her supposed joy at her wedding. Elide Lochan, the daughter of Evalyn’s friend Marion, waves happily at her, oblivious to Aelin’s internal fears.</p><p>Smiling back as she approaches the altar, she notices Aedion, his fur taken off in deference to the customs of the church, and Evalyn in the front pew, who beams at Rhoe beside Aelin like he is the sun.</p><p>She doesn’t look at her intended until she reaches the altar, her eyes finally lifting to the figure of the witch. White hair streams down a back cloaked in red, and armour covers a lean, but muscled body. Pale hands hang loosely at the witch’s side, the nails silvered but not the long iron talons that Aelin would have expected. She raises her gaze to the witch’s face, and has to hold back a gasp.</p><p>The heir to the Blackbeak clan and their supposed assassin is not a man, as Aelin might have guessed. Instead, as the golden sun streams in from the cathedral window and illuminates the witch’s face, she sees that she is to be married to a <em>woman</em>.</p><p>One thought runs through her head as she lets her hands be placed into the witch’s own, heavily callused ones: why not Aedion? While Aelin knows that marriages are made for advantage, she does not know what she brings that Aedion does not: this marriage is not one of love nor pleasure, and Aedion would bring the separate boon of being able to sire an heir from the marriage.</p><p>“Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, do you take this woman, Manon Blackbeak, as your wife, to have and to hold from this day forwards; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till the Darkness do you part, according to the holy laws of Maeve, Mala and Mab?”</p><p>“I do,” Aelin answers, her voice as secure as she can manage, given the circumstances.</p><p>The officiating priest turns to the witch—<em>Manon</em>, Aelin remembers. “Manon Blackbeak, do you take this woman, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, as your wife, to have and to hold from this day forwards; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till the Darkness do you part, according to the holy laws of Maeve, Mala and Mab?”</p><p>“I do,” Aelin’s now-wife answers, her voice like a sword sliding smoothly out of a leather sheath. She lifts Aelin’s hands to her mouth and kisses them, one after the other, slow and surprisingly gentle even though Aelin feels the brush of sharp teeth from behind her lips.</p><p>“You may now kiss the bride upon the lips,” the priest proclaims, and Aelin blinks herself back to concentration. She steps forward boldly and, taking the witch’s hand, places it upon her cheek. The feeling of the skin of the witch’s hand against her cheek is not entirely unpleasant as Aelin leans inwards, lifting her chin, and presses her lips against the witch’s reddened ones (from either blood or rouge, Aelin does not allow herself to think about which one it could be.)</p><p>At first Manon’s lips are closed and unwelcoming, but the hand on Aelin’s cheek seems to calm her down enough to part her lips slightly and kiss Aelin back.</p><p>Aelin has messed around several times—with stable boys with red cheeks and chapped lips, with palace servants who had soft, beeswaxed lips and full, welcoming bodies, occasionally with Elide, who seemed receptive enough for her to attempt kissing with. Manon, however, is clearly more experienced in this area than either Aelin or any of her past vehicles for tomfoolery, and Aelin wonders if Manon was ever as clumsy as any of them. It doesn’t seem to be the case, for the kiss is easily the best one that she has had.</p><p>When she pulls away, Manon is blushing, and Aelin wonders if the marriage may not be as bad as she had thought.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>in this AU, Adarlan never conquered Terrasen, and so Aelin has never met Arobynn, instead growing up with Aedion.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. MANON</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Manon and Aelin’s ceremony is concluded, and Manon starts to fall.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is going so slowly at the minute and i apologise</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Manon finds herself struck by the boldness of her wife as she kisses her, feeling the pressure of soft hands clutched in hers. From her demeanour when she had approached Manon, she had taken her for the typical blushing princess immortalised in the mortals’ tales. Yet her kisses bely another woman lurking beneath the facade of innocence, lips opening against hers as her tongue attempts to sneak into Manon’s mouth.</p><p>Despite herself, she parts her lips, allowing the princess to deepen the kiss. She feels her sharpened teeth catch on tongue, yet the other woman does not pull away repelled. </p><p>It feels oxymoronic that the gentle bride who had approached her would be so bold in kissing. Manon discovers herself wondering about the princess further, and she reconsiders her estimation of this marriage. Perhaps it would be easier than it seemed, for her wife seemed to have no reservation in kissing her, unlike several of the mortal women whom Manon had attempted to bed.</p><p>The pressure against her lips and in her mouth lightens as the princess pulls away, light from the finely made church window dusting the side of her face in gold. Heat rises unbidden to Manon’s cheeks as she beholds her wife, a realisation overcoming her as she sees the smile upon her face. </p><p>However the marriage may have been founded, Aelin’s earnestness upon kissing her was genuine. Manon returns her smile as well as she can, inadvertently exposing sharpened teeth despite her attempt to hide them behind her lips. </p><p>Aelin turns to the rows of people in the church, and Manon follows her lead, eyes tracking out across the faces of the Terrasen people. The majority of them are of noble birth, as evidenced by their fine clothing, painted faces, and well-arranged hair. Yet further back, there are those in the middle class, reasonably well appointed in brighter colours than the browns of peasantry and beggars. Beyond them, Manon views serfs and peasants, their clothes browned by dirt and cheapness. All of Terrasen society has come to witness their union. </p><p>When Aelin’s arm lifts, Manon follows suit, clasping their fingers tighter together. Although she does not turn to see the expression on her wife’s face, it is evident by the reassuring squeeze of her hand that she is succeeding in following Terrasen custom.</p><p>The priest steps up behind them, his scent becoming stronger to Manon’s nose as he comes closer. There is the snip of two scissor blades as he cuts something before she feels a silk ribbon against her skin. It wraps around their joined hands, binding them together from the wrist up towards their interwoven fingers. Manon allows her hand to be bound to Aelin’s, although it disturbs her to have one of her hands incapacitated — despite the supposed happiness of the day, her training as an assassin always takes predecence over any gestures of connection, or unity, or suchlike.</p><p>The priest lowers their tied hands until they are once again at the level of Manon’s hip, nudging against the ceremonial belt around her hips. She follows Aelin’s example of support for the Blackbeak Clan as she declares her support for Terrasen when she becomes Blackbeak leader, speaking in a language that sounds overly flowery and fanciful to her ears more used to dark whispers and hushed tones. The people break out into applause, cheers and noise rippling through them as if they have been infected by a plague of joyousness. Out of the corner of her eye she notes the challenge in the quirk of her wife’s eyebrow, and before she has a chance to ready herself, Aelin sprints back down the aisle, pulling Manon along behind her. She sees the hem of her white dress rippling as she runs, flying up to expose Aelin’s bared ankles. Her throat goes dry as she notices them, filthy fantasies warring with concern. </p><p>They exit the church into bright Terrasen sunshine in a run. By now Manon is roughly level with Aelin’s pace, and they descend the steps at the same rate. The heels of Aelin’s shoes clack against the stone, and Manon’s heart leaps into her throat every time she hears the noise, worry surging into her in a sudden rush. White net streams behind her and lifts in the breeze from Aelin’s speed, exposing long blonde curls flying down her back. She feels less like a princess than a wild woman in this moment, as if she has thrown away the guise of a prettily blushing bride and let out the fire that had made her kiss Manon so deeply. </p><p>Cheering rises from the crowds gathered at the foot of the church stairs, and Aelin slows, Manon following suit. Her smile as she beams at her people is wide and lovely, true happiness shining through. </p><p>Manon finds herself taken rather aback, for she had not expected such a woman as this to be her bride. Princesses, and royalty in general, in Manon’s experience, were generally passionate about only the opposite sex and hateful to their people. Yet Aelin has shown that even if the marriage was political, it could be more than that if they wished; has shown that she cares for the people at her command and shares in their joy. </p><p>A young girl emerges from the crowd. Deep scars have been cut into her cheeks, nearly to the bone, and another royal may have shrunk away in disgust at her appearance. Clutched in her hands is a bouquet of white, yellow and red roses, the colours clearly an attempt to link them to Manon and Aelin. Her smile is as large as the world as she ducks under the garlanded barriers and into the path of the two of them, holding out the flowers in offering. </p><p>With the unbound hand, Aelin reaches down, gathering up the flower stems along with the green ribbon tying them together. Her voice is melodious and beautiful as she thanks the girl, warmth and love seeming to burst directly from her heart and bless the child. She holds them towards Manon, petals raining down around her, catching in the net of her veil and upon the antlers crowning her head. </p><p>Manon runs her fingers over the tops of the roses, fascinated by them. The practice of romantic gestures had long since been purged from the witches, as they had not been deemed suitable for their lifestyle. She wonders why, now. </p><p>The flowers are not perfect—the edges of one are browned and crispy, another one missing several petals. Despite that, they are still soft to her touch, and still beautiful. </p><p>Not allowing herself to think too deeply about it, she kisses Aelin upon the lips, clasping her hand around the roses. She mistakenly nips Aelin’s bottom lip with filed teeth as she kisses and pulls back in apology. </p><p>There is a tiny droplet of blood upon Aelin’s bottom lip as they continue walking through the crowd and towards the waiting carriage, yet she does not move to wipe it away. Instead, she seems to wear it as a mark of pride. </p><p>Manon knows that she should not be falling in love with Aelin Ashryver Galanthiyus. </p><p>She takes the first step towards it anyways. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>spare comments and kudos if you enjoyed it?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. AELIN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Their wedding feast brings Aelin troubled thoughts.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>what is this i have? is it... <em>motivation?????</em></p><p>possible tw for aelin having a breakdown and dead swans being cut up, because... that’s what they did in medieval times.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The ride of the carriage over the cobbled streets is bumpy and wobbling, the spokes of the wheels seeming to break every rotation judging by the noises they make. Aelin has pushed the thin curtain aside in order to glance out of the carriage and onto the crowds surrounding them.</p><p>The happiness on their faces is genuine as she rides by, a shower of rose petals cascading from their hands and into the road. Even the peasantry are bedecked in brightly coloured flowers rather than their usual dirt, crowns of wildflowers resting atop their heads. Their stink is drowned out by the scent of the rose petals flying around the carriage.</p><p>Aelin’s wife, however, does not look to be enjoying the festivity: her back is ramrod straight, hands gripping her knees, and her eyes are fixed upon the opposite wall of the carriage. Her body is jostled when the carriage passes over a particularly difficult stone cobble in the road, yet she does not relax back into the cushioned seats in order to make the journey easier for herself.</p><p>Intrigue runs through her thoughts as she glances at her wife, wishing for the power to peer into the mind of the witch and examine the thoughts inside. On occasion, however, Manon’s blood red lip will raise in a sneer that seems to be directed at nobody in particular, revealing her filed teeth, and Aelin finds herself regretting her previous thoughts. Malice is a strand of humor within the witch’s soul, clearly, and Aelin is by turns fearful and impressed by it. </p><p>She turns away from Manon, chastising her foolish thoughts, and leans out of the window as far as she can. The net veil catches upon the gilded surround of the window, snagging it, yet Aelin ignores it in favour of reaching a hand out to reach for a delicate-looking rose petal floating in the air.</p><p>It is pale pink and pure white, falling through the air gracefully. She pulls her arm through the window to attempt to touch it, the dress she wears tightening around her shoulders in protest.</p><p>The petal descends to join the array of petals already upon the cobbled road, much to Aelin’s chagrin: she would have very much liked to hold it or touch it, at the very least. A tug from where her hand is bound to her wife’s, however, forces her to sit back down. </p><p>Against the silk of the dress, the cushions are slick and it proves difficult to orient herself against them. She uses one hand to prop one cushion behind her back, pressing her heels into the floor. Manon watches her with the barest of interest in her golden eyes.</p><p>“Well?” Aelin demands. “It is our wedding day, and you are my wife. What should we speak of?” The vial at her neck and the dagger in a sheath on her leg seem to grow heavier upon her skin.</p><p>It takes a few moments for her wife to respond. Her nails—short, silvery, although Aelin was not sure whether the effect was natural or contrived—rested against the side of the carriage, drumming out a pattern. Manon’s fingers are long and pale, the knuckles prominent upon them.</p><p>“Whatever you see fit, your highness. I have no interest in the proceedings beyond the marginal.” Her tone is dismissive, accompanied by a flipped wrist.</p><p>Aelin presses further. “Surely there must be <em>a </em>topic of conversation that interests you.” </p><p>Manon lifts her arms above her head and stretches them languidly as if she were a cat before responding, voice langrous and deeper than any other woman’s Aelin had yet met had. “I confess, I am intrigued by the rumours of your powers.” Golden eyes flick from the wall of the carriage to focus upon her, amused and interrogative. </p><p>“Merely rumours.” Aelin drops her head to inspect the nails of one hand. She remembers the witch’s silver ones. “Are your nails naturally metal?”</p><p>A smile like the slash of a knife crosses Manon’s face, red lips opening to show filed teeth. Her wrist flicks into the air flippantly. Before Aelin’s eyes, her nails become long talons of metal. Light gleams off them, deadly sharp.</p><p>Aelin leans a little closer, for she finds them fascinating rather than horrifying. She reaches out with her loose hand to touch them, hesitating when Manon’s eyes sharpen. </p><p>The witch inclines her head and lowers her hand to allow Aelin to take it in hers. She runs her thumb across the knuckles, slides a reverent finger over the top edge of the talons. </p><p>Out of impulse, Aelin raises Manon’s hand to her lips and kisses it, meeting the knuckles with her mouth. Manon’s golden eyes remain on her even as she drops the hand. </p><p>“They are, then,” Aelin says, feeling breathless. She can feel the burning weight of Manon’s gaze on her. This time, it is very clearly not hatred: instead, curiosity is evident.</p><p>The carriage stops, jolting both Manon and Aelin forwards, and she grips Manon’s hand tighter through the ribbon binding them. A footman unbolts the door on Aelin’s side and leads her out, taking her left hand in his to help her descend to the ground. Manon follows, lithely moving to a place beside her.</p><p>Orynth’s great castle is three concentric stone rings for defence, becoming smaller as they move further in. The stone is gray, quarried from the mountains of Terrasen, and four watchtowers are placed at points around the outer wall. While normally the portcullis would have been down, creating a near-impenetrable gate to the castle, in respect to her wedding day it is raised and festooned with flowers hanging from the bottom of the portcullis, clods of dirt tangled in the vines. The flowers are pure white mixed with pink, the display put in place by hired gardeners. </p><p>Manon raises an appreciative eyebrow. “Your defences are well-made, princess.” </p><p>“Why, thank you,” Aelin replies, caught off guard at the small talk. </p><p>“Come, we should be reaching the central hall by now.” As they walk underneath the flowers, a petal falls to the floor, and Manon crushes it underfoot, pink sinking into the dark dirt of the floor.</p><p>They pass the second wall with a gathering crowd behind them—she can hear how boisterous they are, with songs being shouted rather than sung and lutes plucked inexpertly to follow with the tune. In the main, they are singing the Ballad of Elena, composed as a tribute to the life of Terrasen’s Queen Elena. It’s a tragic story in the end, but the middle provides much joy, what with the cheerful proclamations of victory. </p><p>The central hall of Orynth’s castle is lit by fires in lamps hung from the walls, burning with small pieces of Terrasen’s flame. Two long tables sit against the walls of the hall, and the royals’s table is at the far end, against the stained glass windows which show the stag of Terrasen with the Eternal Flame between its antlers. It has been a long while since the Eternal Flame has burned in an heir to the crown, and it reminds Aelin of how much that she has lost with magic’s disappearance.</p><p>They proceed up the carpeted middle of the hall, usually a space for dances and merry-making. Aelin wonders if perhaps Manon might deign to dance with her: she has enjoyed her time spent learning to dance with her mother and wishes to put her learned skills into practice. The thought of the first dance is inconsequential, however, when compared to the lavish banquet laid out on the table.</p><p>Rhoe Galanthiyus’s throne occupies the centre of the royals’ table, a second smaller one next to it for Aelin’s mother, Evalin. It stands empty for now, as Rhoe had been riding in a carriage behind theirs.</p><p>Usually, during great events like these that necessitated banquets, Aelin would sit to the left of Rhoe with Aedion by her side, and they would pass the evening through japes at various members of the nobility’s expense. Yet, as Aelin is now married, the table has been rearranged: Rhoe’s throne has been shifted to command less attention and bring the eye to Aelin and Manon’s seats: twin chairs of gold and red velvet, altered from her normal chair to be taller and more imposing. They are decked in flower garlands, as is the rest of the table. Aelin feels a brief pang of sympathy for the gardeners who are to remove the flowers come the next day.</p><p>Hand in hand, they ascend the dais to the royals’s table. The stairs situated to the left of the table, which they climb up, have been placed specifically for the event: the procession was coming from the church and therefore they could not be able to dress and enter the hall through their usual entrance. The planners had routed the procession to circle around all of Orynth, and the journey tired Aelin a little with its longwindedness. She stumbles as she goes up the stairs—they are taller steps than she usually uses. Manon struggles less, movements lithe as a cat’s, yet she extends a hand to assist Aelin.</p><p>Her wife seems a wonderful contradiction: the deadly Blackbeak assassin, who was said to paint her lips red with the blood of murdered enemies, and yet assisting Aelin during moments of inelegance. Aelin cannot say that she hates her wife, exactly, nor that she loves her. In the main, she feels confused by Manon’s actions.</p><p>As Aelin knows the intricacies of Terrasen culture better than Manon, she leads her wife to stand next to her at the head of the table. They do not sit yet: it is customary for royals to wait for all their people to enter and be seated before they themselves sit down. Manon’s eyes flick across the crowd, the corners of her lips curling up and accentuating the smudging of the red pigment on her lips.</p><p>Aelin believes it to be pigment, at least. It certainly had not tasted like blood when she had kissed Manon, but given her lack of knowledge about her own wife, she could not put anything past her.</p><p>“I have never seen anyone appear quite so happy at a wedding before,” Manon says, her tone quietly awed.</p><p>“They are simply... glad for me,” Aelin replies, staring out at the faces of her people. Joyous for her? No, if she were to wager it, she would guess that they were more joyous for the plates of food about to be placed in front of them. That they were more joyous for the protection that her marriage would afford them from the witches. Aelin turns her head in order that the sickening of her expression not be revealed.</p><p>No matter how intrigued Aelin is by her wife, she cannot forget that this marriage is inherently political. Its only use is to buy Terrasen protection from attacks by witches. And Aelin has been tossed to the witches, a treat for them to play with.</p><p>“<em>Aelin, be safe.</em>” Aedion’s words play over in her mind as she glances at her wife through the corner of her eye. They seem a joke now: after the wedding and the bedding—oh, how Aelin hates to think of the promise of the bedding—Manon is to bring her to the home of the Blackbeak Clan. The vial at her neck and the blade resting against her thigh seem useless when confronted with the reality of Manon’s long, metallic nails. To think that she had kissed those hands, those hands which had killed before...</p><p>“Be seated,” Manon hisses, tugging Aelin’s hand. She descends to the chair reluctantly, hating that Manon can tell her to sit and that she will obey.</p><p>Manon begins to unbind their hands from the ribbon, ordinary fingers and nails working at the silk. She manages to loosen their first two fingers before she looks up at Aelin, annoyance in her eyes, and mutters for her to assist. Aelin presses her fingers in between the ribbon and their enjoined hands, working at the silk to pull it away. Manon tugs it off, placing it upon the table and in between them.</p><p>Aelin looks to her side, but Aedion is not beside her as he usually is: instead, he is further down the hall, talking with a gaggle of friends. One of them laughs raucously, and Aedion’s eyes flick up to her momentarily. His brows raise, concern crossing his face. <em>Are you okay</em>, his expression seems to whisper.</p><p>Aelin shakes her head, a small motion, and Aedion looks back to the food in front of him. She cannot tell if he saw her or not.</p><p>She forces herself to relax, loosens her grip from the comforting shape of the dagger on her thigh, as the first course of their feast is placed in front of them. A soup made with pea, lamb, potato to thicken and lemon for taste: Aelin has had the same many times before when eating with the lower classes, and she remembers the tradition that the couple’s first dish at a wedding would be the same regardless of class. When she takes the first sip of soup from her spoon, however, it tastes less reassuring and more like dust in her mouth. She continues to spoon out more portions of the soup, determined to make it through the feast. Not once does she gaze at Manon: her eyes remain fixed upon the carpet, gaze never straying.</p><p>She finishes her soup fastest: around her, the sound of slurping is still present. Aelin folds her hands in her lap and stares at the empty bowl as she waits, stray curls of lemon peel looking back at her from the inside of the bowl.</p><p>Her bowl is taken away by hands that Aelin barely notices, and her second course brought out. It is a swan, preserved perfectly with nary a white feather out of place, arranged amid a display of fruits and vegetables.</p><p>Aelin has performed this task before: knife sliding into the bird’s body to open it and reveal the meat and fruits stuffed inside. Yet her hands shake as she reaches for the carving knife.</p><p>“Breathe,” someone whispers in her ear, and there is a second hand on the gilded handle of the carving knife, steadying her and moving it through the air to rest on the prepared swan. She lets herself be guided to slice into the bird, knife transversing the outside of the body to carve it open. The strokes are clean, practised, from a hand that has clearly cut before. Aelin lets herself breathe, in and out, pressing down on the knife to assist the carver.</p><p>The body of the swan is opened, and Aelin levers the knife through the meat inside to carve it up fully. The fruit is plump and ripe, the meat tender. It smells delicious, much to Aelin’s surprise for she had expected the entirety of the wedding feast to be as tasteless as the initial soup had been.</p><p>Someone on her side hands over a plate, and Aelin slides a piece of the meat onto it, steaming and succulent against the gleaming white dish ridged by gold. She passes it back, and a second one appears. Aelin lets herself be lost in the simply monotony of the work, sliding the knife to cut up the bird and placing the slice of meat onto the plate. Once no more plates come, Aelin finds herself looking at her own plate, and she moves to cut herself a piece of the swan. Before she can do that, however, the second hand on the carving knife moves and cuts her a piece, placing it on her plate with a gentle sliding motion.</p><p>Aelin glances up, and there Manon is, a small smile on her face as she notices Aelin’s eyes on her. Aelin feels the contact of their hands on the knife, and it feels far more intimate than the binding that the ribbon had done.</p><p>Her lips are already parting to give Manon thanks, but the words catch in her throat as Manon cuts herself a piece, manoeuvring the knife with Aelin’s hand still on it, and puts it onto her own plate. She sits down, hands moving to the first fork of the evening, and Aelin copies her, crossing her legs under the table.</p><p>The swan tastes exactly as good as she had imagined when she digs into it, the fruit providing an intense flavour along with the richness of the meat. She washes it down with the red wine in her goblet, taking small sips so as not to accidentally spill the wine and dirty her perfectly white dress.</p><p>Manon puts down her goblet with a gentle clinking sound. “This is excellent fare. I confess, being in the mountains does not give me many opportunities to indulge.”</p><p>“Thank you, my lady,” Aelin replies earnestly, “but I should not like to take all the credit. The castle’s cooks are all exceptional.”</p><p>&lt;“Give them my regards,” Manon says, smiling. The sharp points of her teeth peek through in between her reddened lips, now further darkened due to the wine, yet they seem less terrifying now than before.</p><p>Manon’s eyes are trained on her, and Aelin feels her cheeks start to flush and colour. “I will.”</p><p>The silence as they eat their food is more companionable than fraught. Aelin steals glimpses at Manon through the curtain of her long hair, and on occasion she thinks she sees Manon glancing over at her.</p><p>She likes the attention better now than before.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><strong>Next chapter:</strong> their first dance!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. MANON</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They share the first dance.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>listen to immaculate conception by zolita during this fic for full effect. actually just stream the entire zolita discography</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Manon finds herself shooting glances to the woman next to her during the feast, more intent on focusing on the princess—her wife—rather than the feast. Out of the corner of her eye, she thinks she sees Aelin reciprocating the errant glances. </p><p>She finds a smile peeking through the edges of her lips. While Manon had expected that the princess would have recoiled from the notion of marriage to a woman, Aelin seems to be equally as attracted to Manon as she is to her. </p><p>Manon finishes her food, the plate left nearly completely clear except for a few errant specks of meat left over. The swan had been delicious, the castle’s chefs clearly having lavished time and attention onto it. She luxuriates in the rich atmosphere, scents of warm berries and steaming meat rising to her nose. </p><p>Casting her glance upwards, Manon notices that Aelin has finished her swan as well, and is standing up, a hand extended to Manon. Aelin looks privately proud, letting Manon place her hand in hers and lace their fingers together, the feel of Aelin’s skin warm but not burning hot. </p><p>She leads Manon away from the table, down the stairs that had led them to it, and towards the centre of the hall, carpeted in a rich forest green. Once the people realise what they plan to do, a cheer rises, warm and loud from the drink. Aelin blushes a light pink from the attention, kneeling in front of Manon to indicate readiness to dance, were Manon to accept.</p><p>Manon accepts with a squeeze of their interlinked hands, aware of the gazes upon them but feeling them fade into the background of genial friendliness and warmth that seems intrinsic to the Great Hall.</p><p>Aelin stands up, quickly brushing off her knees where she had knelt, and moves further into Manon’s personal space.</p><p>Were this from a man, Manon would have drawn one of her concealed blades and sliced at him, hating this intrusion towards her. Yet women have always allowed her to be in touch with a gentler side, easing her war-ready posture and softening her gaze. Manon assents to Aelin’s hands around her waist, and extends one arm out in front of her. Aelin corrects her own stance as well, stiff and proper. When she begins to move into the first steps of the dance, with Manon following barely a beat behind, she feels the desire to dance perfectly to the taught movements woven into the tension of Aelin’s body, and wishes that Aelin would simply relax, allow herself to be caught in the easy flow of the music. It is a soft song, sweetly romantic for the tension between them, mellowing the louder drunks and turning them quieter and enraptured.</p><p>Manon feels the eyes on them as Aelin leads her into a twirl, but her own are locked firmly on Aelin’s. Her heeled boots make soft clicks when they move off the carpet and onto the stone, Aelin spinning her in a circle round the outside of the carpet with the design of the Eternal Flame embroidered upon it. </p><p>Hands finding Aelin’s waist again, Manon pulls her into a gentle sway in time with several strings of slurs, white skirts rushing about her ankles like the river surrounding Orynth. The flow is smoother now that Manon has stepped into a leading role, and she dips Aelin as the pitch of the note plunges downwards. The shift presses their chests together, Aelin’s hair running vertically downwards. The princess’s face is flushed except for her blue-gold eyes, lips parted. Manon almost kisses her there and then, rhythm of the music be damned, but Aelin grips onto her shoulders insistently and she is forced to pull her back up, into the dance again. The coda floats around them as their pace slows down and they move into a more relaxed and natural embrace, Aelin’s hands upon Manon’s back, loosely rather than firmly. </p><p>The song ends, and applause breaks out around them. Aelin looks down nervously, biting her lip, before returning her gaze to Manon. Her face is reddened, her hair loosened from the stiffly done up style of earlier. Encouraged by the cheers around them, she leans in slowly, checking to gauge Aelin along the way, before kissing her, one hand coming up to grip the back of her head and keep her in close, until their breath runs out. </p><p>Aelin pulls away, cheers and appreciative whistles bellowing around them. The musicians pause for a moment before beginning the first note of the next song, and a slow swarm of people begins to get off of the benches, moving in a great sweep towards the dance floor.</p><p>She feels Aelin’s hair whisper against her neck as her wife turns her head, gaze meeting that of an older man’s, who despite the difference in age appears to be Aelin’s twin in all but name, the same blonde hair hanging loose and long around his face and his eyes blue, with pupils ringed by gold. Manon vaguely remembers noticing him at the wedding, where he had frowned at her with a look of suspicion. As the day has gone on, his scowl has softened, and a smile graces his face as he takes the hand of a lord garbed in dark green and turquoise, leading him to join the ranks of dancers surrounding Aelin and Manon in concentric circles.</p><p>“My cousin, Aedion,” Aelin explains when she turns back. Manon nods, thinking back to her own cousin, Asterin, who she had left to command the Thirteen in her absence. She wonders whether Asterin would consider her softened in Aelin’s arms, like snowfall melting into a stream come spring. </p><p>“What say you to another dance?” Manon suggests, asking even though there is no choice but to dance for them.</p><p>Aelin smiles mischievously. “Lead on, Blackbeak.”</p><p>Manon does so, stepping back and unlacing their hands in order for them to raise their arms and make the gestures that begin the dance, attempting to copy Aelin’s motions. Her fingers are deft and fluent in the mysterious language of the dance, moving elegantly through the air. Aelin turns in a steady circle, grasping Manon’s hand lightly in hers, skirt glimmering in the low light as it flies about her legs. Manon can only stand there as her wife—<em>wife</em>, the word still seems strange—dances, the delicacy of her movements a contrast to the lean muscle displayed in her arms. The closer they become, the more Manon finds herself discovering about the previously unknowable princess of Terrasen. </p><p>“You are a fine dancer,” Manon observes, voice hushed enough for only Aelin to hear her words. Aelin blushes as she steps back from Manon to extend her leg out and upwards. The skirt of her dress slides down her leg as she does so, and it is Manon’s turn to blush. </p><p>“My thanks,” Aelin whispers when she locks a hand around Manon’s waist and the other at her hip. “For someone with a bloody reputation, you are not that bad, yourself.”</p><p>Manon laughs softly. “What do you know of my reputation, princess?” </p><p>While a weaker-willed person might have quavered when faced by Manon’s stare, Aelin stays steel-backed, a kind of fire burning within her eyes that matches the Eternal Flame of Terrasen in its brightness. “I know they say you hunt other witches in the night. I know they say that the cloak you wear upon your shoulders is that of a dead witch. I know they say you are inhuman, a stone cold killer without conscience.”</p><p>Manon dips her head to the side, not wishing to look at Aelin. When her grandmother had heard of Manon’s kills, she had smiled with darkened lips and given her another blade to sheath upon her body. Asterin, meanwhile, had thinned her lips in unvoiced disapproval, but never told Manon directly that she was doing something wrong. Hearing her reputation in Aelin’s voice, however, distresses her more than the act of killing ever could.</p><p>“I also know,” Aelin says, pausing their dance to put a hand under Manon’s chin and tilt her face back upwards, “that there is always more to the story. And I know that you are not all that you are said to be.”</p><p>Gritting her teeth, Manon replies, “I could kill you where you stand.” It would be easy, with Aelin’s body pressed close to hers, to slip out a dagger from its sheath and slide it between them, into Aelin’s chest. </p><p>“I don’t think you will,” Aelin says.</p><p>She won’t. Manon knows that she won’t kill Aelin Ashryver Galathiynus, not in a moment or in a thousand years. </p><p>Manon sighs, leaning her head against Aelin’s shoulder. The skin of her forehead meets silk, lace spilling into the collar, and beneath that, skin that feels as if it has been warmed upon a brazier. One of Aelin’s hands comes up to stroke through Manon’s hair, far gentler than she should be. She feels Aelin lower her own forehead onto Manon’s shoulder, a gesture of complete trust.</p><p>“You’re right,” Manon murmurs into Aelin’s shoulder. “I won’t.”</p><p>She thinks that Aelin smiles against her shoulder.</p><p>The simplicity of <em>holding</em> and being held by Aelin lets her drown out the stares and side-eyes of the Terrasen nobles, the music the only thing that filters through to her. There’s a singer, now, and it’s a ballad, about two Fae lovers who had lived centuries before. Manon closes her eyes, and begins to gently sway in time with the music, movements loose and free.</p><p>“They’re all staring,” Aelin murmurs into Manon’s shoulder, breath warm against the skin that is normally frost-chilled.</p><p>“Let them stare,” Manon responds, placing an arm around Aelin’s shoulders. She feels the princess’s shoulder blades shift underneath, her body as delicate as a butterfly in the first snowfall under Manon’s touch.</p><p>Aelin makes a noise of assent, shifting her position to stand upright again. When Manon looks into her eyes, she notices the bleariness and the tiredness in them. Nervously, Aelin gives her a smile, biting down on her bottom lip.</p><p>Outside, night has settled upon Orynth, although warm torchlight still forms beacons of light, and inside the Eternal Flame still burns brightly, the carpet still being worn down by the steps of the dancers.</p><p>Manon sees Aelin’s tiredness, though, and feels an eternal weariness settle over her bones. She hears how the ballad ends, with the lovers separated by their mating bonds, and barely registers the loud clapping and whooping.</p><p>Instead of starting to lead another dance, Manon stills, putting on a patina of a smile which she shows to those assembled.</p><p>“This evening has been wonderful,” she starts, and when she speaks, it seems to ring over the hall like the tolling of a silver bell. And Manon genuinely means it.</p><p>“I fear, however,” she continues, “both my wife and I find ourselves much wearied. It is time, therefore,” Manon takes a deep breath to avoid the fear that rises up in her at the prospect, “for us to go to bed together.”</p><p>Manon breathes in and out to calm herself, panicked at first but smoother as she forces herself to relax.</p><p>She gazes up to the high table, where she sees King Rhoe sitting. He has eschewed the dancing, instead choosing to enjoy the feast, and now he eyes up Manon with a glint of suspicion.</p><p>After a moment, he leans back and shouts down a reply: “We have been honoured by your presence, Manon Blackbeak, and I grant you and my daughter your leave of this hall.”</p><p>Manon lets her arms fall away from Aelin and bows to the room, eyes upon the carpet, before lifting an arm for Aelin to take. Tension thrums through her body as they walk through the rows of nobles, who stand aside to make way for them, and Aelin leads her towards the bedding chamber.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>they’re like people in the regency era who would swoon on the spot if they saw a flash of ankle don’t deny it</p><p>spoiler for the next chapter: things may get a little... <em>spicier</em></p><p>i collect kudos and comments like magpies collect silver things, why not add to my collection! i appreciate them all &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. MANON</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They retire to the bedding chamber.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry for the long wait, but in my defence, the world kinda exploded around everyone...</p><p>anyways, this IS NSFW (thus the rating upgrade) but i’m trying to keep the majority of this fic SFW, so if you don’t want to read sexual content, you can skip this chapter! i’ll try and have the next chapter out by the end of this month.</p><p>idk why but i really felt like exploring manon’s POV from the last chapter so i’m breaking the POV pattern. it’s very sad /s</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aelin is flushed from the scarlet-red wine and glowing golden in the light, stray hairs floating around her head and catching on gold fire. Manon wonders why she had ever believed that it would be difficult to love the princess, all doubts rushed away by this wondrous, shining being.</p><p>She’s smiling mischievously, the flash of her teeth a temptation that Manon is eager to take. Her hand is warm in Manon’s, a fire all of its own. At the place where they touch, Manon feels her usual icy facade melting away. She does not remember the last time that someone had been able to make her feel like this, the cold of the mountains stripping away any sense of such pure joy.</p><p>Her wife twists a chunky brass handle, the heavy, golden-sheened door scraping against the stone floor. Manon follows in her wake, excitement thrumming through her body, electrifying her. Irrepressible want for Aelin wells up inside her, burning her up internally.</p><p>Aelin stops before the bed, and incalculable disappointment takes hold of Manon. The same doubt from before returns: perhaps the princess is not one of those women who appreciates female lovers. It crushes the fire to a pile of dark coals and flickering embers, breaks the wine’s high into pieces.</p><p>The princess glances over her shoulder, cheeks bright and blushing, practically coquettish. “We can’t ruin my wedding dress, can we?”</p><p>Fire sparks in Manon, and she moves closer to Aelin, repressing her want as she places hands upon Aelin’s back. The wedding dress is fastened using what seems to be thousands of tiny buttons running down her spine. Manon tugs gently at each button, slowly loosening the dress off her shoulders. Aelin’s skin is warm and glistening under the candlelight as the dress slides away to expose more of her body, chaste white silk falling away to reveal the flame beneath.</p><p>“Damn buttons,” Manon mutters as she fiddles with a particularly troublesome one near Aelin’s waist, the button evading her fingers. Aelin laughs softly, throaty and deeper than Manon would have expected, and her hands travel around to her back to fiddle with the button and pull it away. </p><p>Manon’s gaze dips downward. Three more buttons left. </p><p>She slides the button through the loop gently, the silk smooth as it brushes her hand. A tense breath catches in her throat as her hands move downward, the buttons taunting her.  </p><p>The button comes undone, falling to one side, forgotten as Manon pinches the last button in two fingers. </p><p>It comes away easily, exposing a triangle of skin warm to Manon’s touch. Aelin shivers, deliciously tense, as Manon shifts her hands to her shoulders and tugs at the dress. The silk rasps softly as it slides downwards to rest at Aelin’s waist, pooling into a shimmering puddle there. </p><p>“I can handle the rest,” Aelin says, and Manon can imagine her smile—teasing, joyous, enough to drive her wild upon the high of it. She shuffles the dress down her legs, stepping out of it once it falls to the floor.</p><p>Manon forgets entirely about the dress, those annoying buttons, the fact that their marriage should only be in name, be political, when Aelin turns to face her. Golden hair falls over her chest, ending just above her waist. Aelin runs her hand through the back of her hair, extricating a small crown and throwing it to the side carelessly.</p><p>She arches an eyebrow at the crown, which rests upside-down upon the stone floor. “I thought you were a princess.”</p><p>Aelin struggles to suppress a cheeky grin. “Not when I’m with you.” She leans in and presses her lips against Manon’s, her tongue sliding between her teeth, as proof. It sets Manon on fire, stirs the coals to flame like a lightning strike hitting them, and she reaches a hand up to claw at Aelin’s hair, press her body to hers.</p><p>As abruptly as Aelin had initiated the kiss, though, she pulls away, leaving Manon desperate for more. She smirks, fully aware of the effect she has on her.</p><p>“Take your garb off, first,” Aelin commands, running a hand up Manon’s arm. </p><p>In response, Manon gives her a roll of the eyes, but the glow in her eyes betrays her true feelings. “It’s your turn to undress me, princess.”</p><p>Aelin bites down on her lip at the nickname, hard enough that blood glitters on her lip when she draws in closer to Manon. “Fine.”</p><p>Her touch burns through Manon’s armour as she unbuckles it, surprisingly quick with the buckles for her status. The metal clangs against the flagstones as it drops, but Manon has no care for it, only staring at Aelin as she works. Armour thus scattered on the floor, Aelin begins to untie the front of Manon’s tunic, the dark fabric the only remaining barrier between their skin. She makes haste, tugging at the sleeves to pull the tunic off her torso, before moving downwards and beginning to undo the belt of Manon’s trousers, the leather slipping through the brass with a rasp. Heat rises to Manon’s cheeks as Aelin works at her trousers, every touch of her fingers nearer to Manon’s core striking shocks through her. </p><p>“Step out of your boots,” Aelin orders, and Manon does so, the trousers caught at her knees. Aelin’s hair hangs down against her thigh as she looks down to shuffle the trousers off Manon’s legs, giving a strong pull at the end to take them off all the way. </p><p>Aelin stands back up, and her eyes meet Manon’s and catch upon hers. She reaches for the clasp of Manon’s cloak at her throat and pauses there, silently asking permission. </p><p>Manon dips her head, allowing Aelin to undo the golden clasp and for the red cloak—a sign of her pride and strength, and the blood and the killings, each mingling in equal measure to show that Manon is someone to be respected and feared.</p><p>With Aelin, though, the red cloak is forgotten, left to fall upon the cold flagstones. It is the same as when Aelin had said to her ‘<em>Not when I’m with you</em>’: in this bedchamber, in each other’s presence, all titles, all fear, are dropped, leaving only Manon and Aelin—no longer a Blackbeak or a Galathiynus, but their own people entirely.</p><p>Aelin’s hand rests on the nape of Manon’s neck, her gold-blue eyes honest and open. “Come to bed, Manon.”</p><p>She nods, and together they fall to the bed, giving into the waiting fire.</p><p>Manon is full up on Aelin, world reduced to only golden hair, warm skin under her hands, the clear sapphire blue and gold of bright eyes, lips bitten pink. Aelin kisses her, and it steals her breath away, sequesters it to fuel the building fire between them. It seems that she cannot pull Aelin close enough, cannot kiss her hard enough. Overwhelming, cresting majestically as it sweeps through Manon. </p><p>“You are magnificent,” Aelin breathes from underneath Manon, “could spend the rest of my life worshipping you.”</p><p>“That’s blasphemy,” Manon replies, “You’re the one who ought to be worshipped.”</p><p>Aelin pulls Manon down, embraces her within the heat of her arms, and into Manon’s ear she whispers, “It’s still blasphemous.”</p><p>Manon’s heart begins to jackrabbit in her chest, pressed against Aelin as she is, with Aelin murmuring such sinful words, a temptation laid out before her.</p><p>“Not when it’s you who is the object of such worship.”</p><p>She feels Aelin’s breath catch within her chest, the subtle way in which her fingers dig into Manon’s back. “<em>Oh</em>.” </p><p>“Indeed,” Manon’s lips press against Aelin’s collarbone, moves upwards to the side of her neck, where her pulse thrums beneath skin. When Manon feels a pulse, it is normally only when she pushes two fingers against a dying Crochan’s neck to check if they yet live. To have Aelin <em>let </em>her (a killer, a witch) touch her so intimately, for her to be completely unafraid of Manon’s hands upon her—she never wants to allow Aelin to leave her. </p><p>Beneath her, Aelin lets out a choked moan, sliding her hands into Manon’s hair, arching up against Manon’s body. Her head falls back, allowing Manon to kiss more of her neck. And Manon loves it, and loves her, and loves it. </p><p>Between kisses, Manon laves praise upon Aelin, heady, honey-sweet words falling to rest upon Aelin’s skin like droplets of molten gold. Αelin bites back moans and ‘<em>oh</em>’s and sighs of pleasure, hands running through Manon’s hair, never tugging, never pulling, merely clasping. </p><p>Manon’s mouth reaches upwards, against Aelin’s jawbone, which softens, lips falling open to finally, <em>finally</em> let out sweet, beautiful moans. Her hair is damp from sweat, beads of it glistening on her skin, yet it does not cause Manon to pull away. There is an ever-growing hunger in her, a desire that needs to be satiated, a fire that must be fed. And only Aelin’s touch, the press of their bodies together, the irresistible draw of Aelin’s skin on her lips, can satisfy it. </p><p>“Manon,” Aelin whispers, gasps, mouth slack.</p><p>She lifts her lips away from Aelin’s skin, repressing the part of her that roars for more. “Yes, princess?”</p><p>The nickname causes Aelin’s eyes to widen, her hand to claw into Manon’s hair, yet only for a moment. Aelin’s eyelids flicker closed for a moment before blinking back open, her pupils darkening her eyes. “I haven’t—I’ve never tumbled anyone before.”</p><p>Manon frowns, unsure of Aelin’s meaning. Her white hair hangs down her cheeks, the ends mingling with Aelin’s golden hair, laid out upon the bed. </p><p>“I mean—taken a lover. Or—any of this.” Her eyes dip down to their bodies, pressed against each other. She looks up at Manon, eyes fearful. “You will not hold it against me, will you?”</p><p>Manon shakes her head, understanding Aelin’s meaning. “I shall not.” She glances down at Aelin’s wide eyes again. “If you wish for me to stop, I shall obey.”</p><p>Aelin nods, uncertain at first, before becoming more decisive. “Thank you,”</p><p>Manon waits for Aelin to make the next move, keeping herself raised above Aelin. The princess nods, seemingly to herself, before she looks back up at Manon and surges upwards, connecting their lips, impassioned. Aelin’s teeth scratch at Manon’s lower lip, tongue gliding into Manon’s mouth as she deepens their kiss, nails digging into Manon’s back in a pleasurable kind of pain. </p><p>Aelin’s confidence in bed is admirable, now that she has spoken her piece: she tugs at Manon’s hair, bringing her closer, her skin setting off sparks where she moves against Manon. When she pulls back, it is with darkened eyes and bitten lips.</p><p>“Fingers, or mouth?” she asks Manon, hand gripping at her hip. The offer is so bold that Manon is startled for a moment. </p><p>“I thought you said you had little experience?” Manon says, smiling regardless. The waves of passion recede, leaving only the softness of Aelin’s body and the rose-pink blush upon her cheeks.</p><p>Aelin ducks her head to the side. “I may have been to a brothel with my cousin once. Aedion—you saw him at the dance.”</p><p>Even though she despises that part of herself, Manon nods at the information, already storing it away for future reference. “I see. In that case, mouth, princess.”</p><p>She hates that the name on Aelin’s tongue is the name of her cousin, rather than Manon’s. Jealously hooks its vicious claws into her, twists, even as Manon slides off of Aelin to lie on her back upon the bed.</p><p>Aelin’s golden hair is brushing the insides of her thighs as she leans down towards the apex of Manon’s legs. Her mouth is reddened from wine and kissing, and her cheeks flush a darker pink as she moves her head closer.</p><p>She looks up at Manon, seeking permission, and Manon nods, reaching down to thread her fingers through Aelin’s hair. Aelin’s breath is warm against her thighs, and when she dips down to put her mouth on Manon, the fire reaches its peak, rising inside Manon until it is enough to burn the world to cinders.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>when did this get 30 kudos?? wow! y’all are some of the best readers i could ever ask for.</p><p>also is there an overuse of fire imagery/metaphors here?? yes. do i feel bad about that? not really...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. AELIN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The next morning, Aelin prepares to say her goodbyes.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry about the wait for this chapter but i hope that y’all like it!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aelin wakes to bright dawn light upon her face through the gap in the heavy, dark curtains. She lifts her head a little off the silken pillow, drowsy enough and forgetful enough that she startles when she feels the weight pressed against her body. </p><p>Manon Blackbeak, the fearsome witch—and rumoured assassin—makes a small, catlike sound and nudges up against Aelin. Her skin is bare against Aelin’s, and she flushes bright pink upon remembering the events of last night. </p><p>She tries to move out of Manon’s clutches, but is stopped as the witch pulls the covers tighter around them, thus preventing Aelin from much movement. Sighing, she turns over in bed, gazing at the floor rather than at Manon. </p><p>It’s not that she dislikes Manon—certainly not that, for Manon is easily likeable once the illusion of her stiff, tough exterior fades away. Aelin simply cannot bring herself to love Manon when she is still questioning whether any of the passion that had flowed so easily between them yesterday, had made their consummation feel so natural and wonderful, is truly real, or whether it has all been one large show to mask the true Manon behind all of it. </p><p>She runs a hand through her hair, the roots of the strands dampened by sweat and the ends still stiffened from the curls that her hair had been twisted into for the wedding. The fine teal silk over her body seems less luxurious and more a cage, pressing against her and conspiring to keep her contained within the stifling covers. Aelin kicks at the edges of the covers in anger, throwing them into disarray. Not for the first time, she wishes that a truthful answer was readily available to her; but, as she knows all too well, truth is difficult to come by when one happens to be part of the royal family. </p><p>She slips out from under the covers and begins to pace the room, nervousness imbuing her movements with a spurious franticness. In her head she debates whether it would be simpler to slip out the door and retreat or remain in the room and face what may come.</p><p>Aelin reaches downwards and picks up a slip of white cloth. It slides over her hands and through her fingers as if it is scales upon one of the silver fish that swim in the river surrounding Orynth, and it is only when Aelin shakes it out and holds it up to unfold and extend it to its full length that she realises that it is her wedding dress. </p><p>The dress is coated with memories Aelin is not sure if she should treasure or forget: Aedion’s concerned words to her. Manon’s lips pressing against hers. Manon’s fingers pulling the dress off her body and letting it fall to the floor. </p><p>They seem all drunken memories now, corrupted as if she had drunk fey wine. Aelin drops it again, watches it coalesce into a pile of shimmering fabric that glitters in sunlight. She doubts she will ever have occasion to wear the dress again: it is a shame, for the dress is lovely, but in some ways Aelin is glad of it. It means that she can leave the past in memory. </p><p>In the corner of the room, there is a dark-coloured cherry-wood wardrobe, a tree spreading its branches across the doors in a complex carving. Aelin walks over to it and opens the doors to inspect the clothes inside, deciding upon a more practical and sensible outfit than the dress of yesterday. </p><p>She dresses quickly and efficiently, almost as if she might be running away judging by her urgency in tugging on the clothes. Aelin stifles a laugh to prevent Manon from waking inadvertently, for in some ways she is running away, and into the claws of a new situation.</p><p>It had been arranged that, after the marriage, Aelin would travel to the mountains with Manon, and live among the witches there, with their clans and bloodthirsty ways, before returning to Orynth when Rhoe was ready to cede the kingship to her. The prospect is equally terrifying and appealing: living among the witches, whose culture is fairly opaque and mysterious to an outsider, frightens her, yet forgetting about the burden of being part of the ruling family seems almost enjoyable. Aelin finds herself unable to settle on one secure opinion.</p><p>A soft noise from the bed causes her to spin lightly on her heel, and she sees Manon’s golden eyes slowly flickering open. A stripe of brilliant light illuminates the witch’s face, down her forehead and over her nose and chin. The tiredness evident on Manon’s face softens the sharp, blade-like quality that is twisted into the very fibre of <em>Manon</em>, and Aelin smiles, despite herself, despite it all, at her wife.</p><p>She supposes that she could learn, in time, to love the other side of Manon, as well.</p><p>“Morning,” Aelin greets Manon, moving to settle upon the side of the bed. The quiet as Manon rubs at her eyes and pushes away the bedcovers is companionable, easy in that Aelin can relax into it and forget her doubts, not drowning under the weight of the water but rather a slow drift downwards.</p><p>Manon reaches for her, the delicate touch of a hand covering hers, but Aelin flinches away, passing her hand to her lap. Nervous energy jolts through her, and she stands up, walks to pull the curtains away from the window. Bright daylight flows into the room, glaring in Aelin’s eyes. She hooks the thick golden rope over the curtain, pulling it further aside. </p><p>“By midnight today, we shall be in the mountains, with my sisters of the Thirteen.” Manon’s voice is cold, and would be haughty if not for the gentle lilt to it. “Does that scare you? Do <em>I</em> scare you?”</p><p>Aelin swallows, throat thick with guilt. “I... don’t know.” </p><p>Manon shifts closer, not daring to touch her, but Aelin can sense her fingers hovering to do so. “I know my words will do little to dissipate your fear, but this I promise with my heart and soul. I will protect you from those who would do you harm, until the darkness claims me.”</p><p>“You do not wish me harm? I had assumed...” Almost immediately after she has spoken, Aelin flushes red, cheeks burning from embarrassment. “I apologise—I spoke out of turn, forgive me.”</p><p>Manon’s laugh is almost sweet, were it not for the sour tinge of her smile, as if she has bitten into a distasteful fruit and is attempting to cover her grimace. “Why would I wish you harm? Your parents extended the offer of marriage to me and mine for an alliance. I would never harm you, so long as the alliance holds.”</p><p>Aelin nods, finally starting to understand. “This is purely political, then?”</p><p>“Yes,” Manon confirms. “Unless you would want it to be otherwise, but I believe we would both be satisfied without the added... complications that a truer relationship would bring.”</p><p>Though something deep inside of her cries out that this is not what Aelin truly wants, she replies with, “No, that would not be necessary.”</p><p>“Good,” Manon says. Repeats it again, twisting the word upon her tongue. “Very good.” Something changes in her abruptly, causes her to draw herself up taller. “I will inform my clan of our coming, and I advise you to pack lightly, yet for warmth. It is cold and lonely without company in the Ruhnn Mountains.”</p><p>Having said this, Manon walks to the door. Her hand rests upon the handle as she turns, golden gaze meeting Aelin’s eyes. “For what it is worth, I enjoyed last night. I have not felt that way in a long while. My thanks.” She opens the door and slips out without any further words, leaving Aelin confused and longing. </p><p>In the absence of Manon, Aelin busies herself with tidying the bedcovers in her wake. The simple routine of smoothing the sheets over the bed calms her, gives her an outlet for the emotion raging inside her. When a servant knocks on the door, she declines their offer of assistance with a small, forced-out smile, choosing to go it alone. It seems like loneliness is something that Aelin will have to become used to. </p><p>By midday, there is a second knock on her door as Aelin is folding several loose undershirts into small squares. She stands up and sighs as she opens the door, expecting another well-meaning but unnecessary servant. Instead, it is Aedion waiting outside, the regal attire of yesterday exchanged for the clothes of a commoner, much like Aelin had shucked the white dress for the loose shirt and tight, dark-coloured breeches that she now wears. At the sight of her cousin, Aelin feels her spirit lighten.</p><p>Aedion stares down at the floor, one booted foot tapping impatiently. “I thought that we might take a walk around Orynth, remind you of all the places that you and I both love, before you have to leave.”</p><p>Aelin’s eyes grow glassy and she embraces Aedion tightly, her heart thundering in her chest. “Of course.” Stepping back, she tilts her head to the side playfully. “In those clothes, though? Don’t you want to flaunt your royal status?” she needles him, affectionately. </p><p>“Don’t you want to show off your newly-married status?” Aedion tries to be serious, but one corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile.</p><p>“Oh, fuck off,” Aelin says, taking his arm and shutting the door behind her. </p><p>Aedion’s laughter rings out through the halls, bright and cheerful, and Aelin’s spirit lifts. If it was not deemed improper, she might have run through the corridors with him like she used to when they were still children, and could not be expected to know courtly behaviour and manners. But now they are older, and the weight of their status has settled into place, sticks their feet to the ground and slows their movements to a statelier pace. </p><p>Aelin thinks that part of the reason they both prefer commoner clothes and the common places in Orynth is that they can be free there, unconstrained by the court’s opinion and judgement—Aedion more than her, but the freedom offered still lights a spark inside her.</p><p>“Remember, no more messing around with Della for you,” Aedion jokes as they walk along a wide market street, occasionally pulling away from the crowd to buy small foodstuffs. “You’re a married woman now.”</p><p>She frowns up at him, for she had truly been thinking of asking Della—one of Aedion’s few true previous sweethearts, and who still has a good friendship with him even after they had broken it off—for a few kisses, but the new knowledge of Manon’s sharp teeth and cold lips is far better than the memories of the chaste kisses Della had given her. “Very well, I will keep away.” </p><p>“Truly?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aelin says, biting into a saccharine-sweet candied apple.</p><p>Aedion reaches over her and steals an apple for himself, the sugar coating crunching loudly as he takes a bite out of it. For a while they simply walk, Aelin silently basking in the atmosphere of the market as she eats the candied apple, and she can forget about Manon’s golden eyes and shining silver hair. </p><p>“Aelin,” Aedion asks, after he’s tossed the apple core away, “who d’you think my father is?”</p><p>He’s asked her this question many times before, and Aelin responds as she normally does: “A warrior. Someone brave.” This time, however, the answer she gives does not seem enough for him. His eyes are upon the sky, wondering, and Aelin knows that she should stop him questioning, relegate his attention back to the goods on sale in the market. She doesn’t, though, instead allowing him to wonder. </p><p>Abruptly, he stops and turns to her. “Aelin—I think that, soon, I’m going to go find my father, whoever he is.” Determination sparks in his eyes, so like her own, and she can tell that he will not be stopped. </p><p>“I wish I could go with you to find him,” Aelin says, her spirit already yearning for the excitement of adventure, those fantasies of childhood that she was meant to leave behind. A constant reaching for something unknown, hoping to find herself in the great expanse of the sky above. “But I am trapped by my marriage. I do not think there will be a grand adventure for me.”</p><p>Aedion shakes his head, taking her hands in his. “I believe that you will have your grand adventure, Aelin,” he says, smiling. “And who knows—in time, your marriage may lead to your grand adventure.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>im sorry for the angst in this chapter </p><p>if you want to yell at me via comment, feel free, and if you’re too nervous to comment I LOVE ALL KUDOS TOO!!! this fic is at 39 kudos currently, thank you all so much &lt;333</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. AELIN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aelin leaves Orynth behind.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this fic is at 53 kudos?? omfg :0</p><p>happy new year (late)... although honestly idk if this year’s very happy so far.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Although Aedion’s company had provided some measure of protection against the soul-crushing loneliness she feels (has felt ever since Manon had left her alone), now that he has left it seems all-encompassing, crushing her under its weight. Aelin taps her foot (in dark leather boots, a newly-sharpened knife sheathed inside against her ankle) impatiently, wondering whether she is happy that Manon will be returning or whether she will be melancholy and withdrawn as she leaves Orynth.</p><p>Aelin tugs the fur-lined hood of her richly made, navy cloak further over her head, the soft fur resting against her cheek, to stave off the cold that always slips into Terrasen nights by virtue of the kingdom’s northernness. She blinks and rubs at her eyes, undoubtedly smudging the little remaining powder from her wedding day (only yesterday, she reminds herself, though it seems like years have passed in the time between the wedding and this moment). A yawn forces itself upon her, and she raises a hand above her mouth to conceal it automatically, even though there is nobody watching her and checking that she measures up to the standards set for royalty. </p><p>While she waits for Manon—her wife, she supposes, but even that small fact of her new life is difficult to comprehend—Aelin takes stock of her weapons again, nerves causing her fingers to twitch as if in need of a hilt to close around. There’s the knife in her boot, which digs into her ankle sharply whenever she takes a step, the small phial of poison nestled in the hollow of her throat and collarbone, the second knife strapped onto her hip beneath her clothes, and the sword that slides against her thigh. The reassuring feel of the metal beneath her fingers, skating uncertainly across the blades, assuages her of any fears she might have for her safety. Naturally, she has Manon’s protection via the marriage, but as a contingency in case of an emergency, she is glad of her preparedness. </p><p>She would have said her goodbyes to her parents if she had been able to, but every time she had attempted to go find them to say her farewells, Aelin had been struck with another wave of melancholy, tears welling up in her eyes under the shadow of her hood, and she had turned her back upon them again. Aelin wonders what they will think of her after this. Will they still consider her the perfect daughter? Or would her distance from them cause her parents to be angered at her? She hopes, for their sakes, that any anger that they might feel will fade away with time and her absence. </p><p>Lithe, cat-like footsteps make light sounds on the cobbles behind her, and Aelin whirls around, hand already reaching to withdraw a blade from where it is hidden. They slide the dark hood away from their head, and in the flickering torchlight Aelin recognises Manon’s snowy-white hair and gleaming golden eyes, purer than any coin she had seen. </p><p>With a lump of apprehension rising in her throat, she asks, “Is it time for us to leave?” </p><p>A short, impersonal nod as Manon’s eyes flick over her, the witch’s face betraying no emotion. “Follow me. My wyvern and my coven of Thirteen wait outside the city to escort you to the Ruhnn Mountains.”</p><p>Manon’s back turns, and Aelin glances around her, eyes turned up to the sky, gazing at the home that she will soon lose. She won’t lose it forever, for it will still be awaiting her after—after <em>everything</em>—but it still hurts that she’s leaving, a piece taken out of her that will only be repaired too late.</p><p>“Hurry up,” Manon snaps at her, nails glinting silver under the torchlight as she raises a hand to wave Aelin on. She swallows, and follows behind Manon, steps rushed to keep up with the fast pace that Manon walks at. The stars start to unveil themselves from the cover of night, shining down upon the two of them as Manon leads her away from home. Aelin has never been able to figure out if their silver gaze is one of love and protection or one of mockery.</p><p>She is given little chance to give Orynth a proper farewell, instead forcing herself to keep her gaze fixed upon the swish of Manon’s pale-white hair as it changes and morphs colours as she continues forwards, from gold-tinted under torchlight to shining and tinted gray under the dark-blue sky. At times she feels tiredness begin to encroach upon her, but the chill upon her bare face and the constant beacon of Manon ahead of her, leading her towards another, entirely new life, one that Aelin still hesitates to enter. </p><p>The layout of Orynth is engrained within her mind, and Aelin knows immediately when they reach the outskirts, for the houses grow steadily worse in condition, and beggars still freezing upon the streets, voices reduced to only a hoarse croak as they cry for pennies. Aelin has always looked away from them, ashamed of how her family had let these poor people down. Ashamed of the mask of indifference that she was forced to wear.</p><p>It is then, or somewhere around then, that Aelin makes the decision to remove her mask and throw it aside to forget it. “Halt,” she says, steady, and kneels down in front of the beggar, tugging a pouch of coins off her belt. </p><p>Aelin swallows, nervously, as she extricates several coins, all gold, all minted with her father’s profile. Her voice is quiet, quavering anxiously as she says to the beggar, “I’m sorry that I cannot give you more, but I hope that this may help you.” She presses them into the beggar’s outstretched hands, fears for a moment before their hand closes around the coins. A frost-hoarse voice responds, “Thank you.”</p><p>She stands up, backs away, and her eyes catch upon Manon waiting there. In her golden eyes, Aelin sees a flicker of the Manon that she had glimpsed upon their wedding night, a little of the iron facade flaking away. There are no words exchanged, though, even though their glances are charged with something that Aelin has experienced with Manon before. It’s the look that Manon gave her after Aelin had pressed her lips to Manon’s for the first time, the look that Manon had in her eyes when Aelin had—it hadn’t quite been <em>making love</em>, for it had been uncertain, stumbling at times, but never quite verging into <em>love</em>. Aelin closes her eyes, tries to clear the thoughts that rise up in her: the image of Manon, with her skin warming under the traceries of Aelin’s fingers, pale hair draping over her bare back, but it stays there, in the back of her mind. </p><p>Manon presses her lips together, impatience writ into the sharp slant of her glare and the thin line of her mouth. Thus chastened, Aelin nods in return, and Manon turns her back again to continue leading Aelin away from Orynth. For the remainder of the walk Aelin finds herself in a state of strange wakefulness, one brought on by the night itself rather than any of Aelin’s own endurance. It seems that the time disappears in mere moments, for soon Orynth has become nothing but a shadow looming at her back and before her—Aelin takes in a shocked breath of wind, chilling her lips, already purple-stained from the cold—is a <em>wyvern</em>, eyes seeming to seek out Aelin where she stands behind Manon.</p><p>“Be not fooled by his appearance,” advises Manon, and her voice is stern, the voice of a commander. Her eyes are stern, but they soften as she gazes up at the wyvern. “Abraxos is gentle for his kind.” She slides a hand up the curve of the wyvern’s head, stroking dangerously near to the spines that frill out around its neck. “Come, allow him to sniff you, otherwise he shall not let you ride him, for you are unfamiliar to him.”</p><p>Nervousness makes Aelin’s fingers twist in their locked grip, lacing her fingers together before loosening the harsh clutch of her hands. She lifts a single trembling hand towards the wyvern’s—<em>Abraxos’s</em>—nostrils, and places her hand upon the flat of his face, pulls it back immediately afterwards as Abraxos puffs out a curlicue of warm air. </p><p>Manon steps forwards, covers Aelin’s hand with her own and presses her hand back down to flatten against Abraxos’s nose, the contact gentle even as she holds her hand down firmly. Aelin swallows, her throat turning to dryness, and runs her hand over Abraxos’s face with Manon guiding her movements, steadying her where their hands are interlocked. Slowly, Manon loosens her hold on Aelin’s hand, and Aelin skates her hand over Abraxos’s head, still skittish and still unsure, but she is no longer spooked when Abraxos lets out a soft puff from his nostrils. </p><p>“He has assented to let you ride with me upon him,” Manon announces to her, and she leads Aelin to stand behind one of his wings, closed over them protectively, smoothly demonstrates the procedure to mount a wyvern, leg sliding comfortably into position in the saddle. Atop Abraxos, she looks powerful and terrifying, witch that she is in all her glory, a strange kind of moonlit beauty that steals all the breath from Aelin’s throat and makes her eyes widen in wonder. </p><p>A hand is extended downwards to her, nails glinting silver, and she spares one last glance back at Orynth—home for so long, and now home no longer—before she laces her fingers into Manon’s with only the slightest of hesitations and allows herself to be tugged upwards, foot landing awkwardly against Manon’s where her heels are positioned to dig into Abraxos’s sides. The saddle is clearly designed for a single person given the space that Aelin is afforded, and Aelin must press her chest against Manon’s back, Manon’s blood-red cloak, must tighten her arms about Manon’s waist to ground and steady herself. Manon gives a long, loud whistle, and other wyverns peel away from the darkness of the shadows, turning visible as they come into the moonlight and rise upwards, dark shapes against the night sky. Mounted atop the wyverns are other witches, with their long hair streaming behind them in the icy wind, shoulders set proudly backwards. Aelin rests her head against Manon’s back, feels the bodily warmth from Manon against her cold cheek, and a slow, soft smile curls the corners of her mouth upwards. </p><p>As she rises into the air, Abraxos’s wings steadily taking them away from the stable ground, Manon calls “We ride for the Ruhnn Mountains!” triumphantly, and Aelin sees another side to Manon, another side revealed like reflecting light through different angles of a gemstone. This side is that of a warrior, that of a commander, her very bones imbued with warlike power. Seeing such a sight before her, Aelin feels grateful that the witches are upon the side of Terrasen, for she knows that if the Terrasen army faced Manon’s coven in battle, they would run fearful and screaming at the first sighting of the witches in the sky. </p><p>“What are you thinking of?” Manon asks, soft, murmuring it into the air for only the two of them to hear. Her hair twists and curls in the wind, running lightly over Aelin’s face where the hood of her cloak does not cover her.</p><p>Aelin’s laugh is muffled in the fabric of Manon’s scarlet cape, her words quiet. “How very terrifying you are.”</p><p>And, Manon laughs in return, the sound rising into the air, full of beauty and joy to Aelin. “You do me a great compliment.”</p><p>“Mm, but it is only the truth.” Aelin responds, eyelids beginning to flutter closed even as she speaks. Manon’s cloak is soft against her cheek, less soft than the luxurious bedding that Aelin had been used to in Orynth, but to Aelin, in this moment, it is perfect. She closes her eyes, lets the darkness of sleep sweep in without putting up any fight against it in an attempt to remain awake, her arms still closed tight about Manon. </p><p>For once in her life, Aelin finds herself feeling safe, the wingbeats of Abraxos steady and soothing as they fly onwards, towards the mountains and the future that awaits Aelin there. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as always, you lot are some of the best readers, and ily all !! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. MANON</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aelin’s first day in the Blackbeak camp dawns.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>to all the girls and the gays who have read/are reading this: thank u guys from the bottom of my heart for all the support for this. i know i say this every time but u r the best readers ever &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Manon feels weariness settling in to her body as the sun draws a new day in the sky within the frame of the Ferian Gap, the Blackbeak camp slowly growing larger as she descends through the clouds towards it. At her back, she feels Aelin beginning to stir, her head digging into the small of Manon’s back. </p><p>Around her, the Thirteen move in closer, creating a phalanx with Asterin on her blue wavering dropping downwards to lead them to the camp. The easy confidence with which Asterin leads assures Manon, imbues her with spirit and pushes away the looming threat of sleep. She digs her nails into her palms as she clutches at the reins to pull Abraxos’s head back into position. He, too, is tired from the night flight with no sleep, but neither of them can afford to falter now. </p><p>“We nearly there yet?” Aelin murmurs, her words slurring into each other with drowsiness. Manon replies “Nearly,” and trains her eyes on the camp to land. “Keep your arms tight around me,” she adds as an afterthought, knowing that soon they will start to land. </p><p>Asterin is the first to angle her wyvern downwards and plunge through the air. Like a stone thrown down into water, she and her wyvern turn from large and real one moment to misted over and barely a dark spot in the sky. </p><p>Manon follows suit, with those on the wings beside her halting briefly so as to let her go first. She has done this many times by now, but every time her breath is still stolen from her mouth and every time there is a moment when she is not quite sure whether she is falling or flying. Perhaps it is both. </p><p>The weight of Aelin against her back shifts, and she feels Aelin’s chin dig against her shoulder, her golden hair flicking at Manon’s cold cheek. Her arms are strong and secure about Manon’s waist, and her smile is undoubtedly full of boundless joy. </p><p>As ever, though, the descent is over too soon, and Manon is hurtling towards the flat, bare ground for landing upon. She pulls Abraxos up from the dive so he does not collide with the ground, and lowers him down steadily. When at last he finally touches the ground, an exhausted smile finds its way onto Manon’s lips. </p><p>Aelin is full of all the energy and eagerness of one who had just woken up, but Manon grows tired, and she knows the Thirteen must feel the same weariness too. She slides off Abraxos less gracefully than she might have done, her feet landing on solid ground with a thump, and she extends a hand to help Aelin down, but the princess must be versed in horse-riding, for she slides off the saddle easily and with little difficulty. </p><p>“What now for us?” Aelin asks cheerily, linking her arm with Manon’s. She gazes in awe at the Blackbeak camp, eyes wide and mouth opened slightly. Although Manon has long since grown weary of the mountains, the skies not quite wide enough to fit her anymore, watching Aelin’s reaction is almost like she is seeing it with new-made eyes. </p><p>“You must greet my grandmother,” Manon says, feeling the edges of her mouth lift into a smile as Aelin pulls the dark-blue hood away from her head, long golden hair flying free. Her blue-gold eyes sparkle with possibility, with hope as she looks to the sky, and Manon sees the blue of it reflected in her gaze. </p><p>Aelin chews upon her lip at that, thoughtful, before she tilts her head towards Manon, her glance open and questioning. “This grandmother of yours... what is her temperament? Should I expect much kindness from her?”</p><p>The naivety in Aelin’s voice is near enough to cause Manon to laugh, but she restrains herself, for any emotion other than blind, unquestioning devotion to the clan must be constrained to the privacy of her tent. “The years have hammered my grandmother into solid steel. No, she is not kind, for a sword is never kind. Its only purpose is warfare. And the Blackbeak Matron, no matter what else she may be, is a sword, first and foremost.” Manon fists her hand within the blood-red fabric of her cloak, for thinking of her grandmother angers her, although she is unsure what the blind rage she feels is for. Something inside her cries out injustice, but Manon is blind and deaf to what that injustice may be. </p><p>A gentle pressure on her shoulders, Aelin’s hand rubbing in soft circles through the fabric, through the breastplate she wears, a reminder to Manon that she is not merely what her grandmother had made her out to be. Manon allows her head to dip, for the weariness to finally sink bone-deep. </p><p>“You must sleep, Manon,” Aelin murmurs, kindness melting away at the armour that Manon buckles over her true self each day. “Show me where you rest, and there I will protect you until the time comes to wake.” </p><p>Manon feels herself nodding, hears herself directing Aelin to the tent where she can finally loosen the mask of iron that her grandmother had locked over her. It must be <em>their </em>tent, now, she supposes, and even that is a strange realisation, for Manon shares little in the way of thoughts and feelings, and her bedroll even less. Her new wife, it seems, is insistent upon disrupting the otherwise carefully ordered threads of Manon’s life. </p><p>She tells Aelin as much, and earns a bright laugh, a true smile in a place where there is only nails sharp enough to draw blood and swords laid down in place of lovers at night. Sometimes Aelin begins to convince her that there is another life for her, a life without so much blood staining her hands, a life where she can be someone other than just a sword beaten into shape by her grandmother. But then Manon feels the weight of her grandmother’s fists again, hears the venomous, spiteful words that had been spat at her time and time again, and she is filled with more fear than any enemy could make her feel.</p><p>Aelin’s arm stiffens around her as she slumps more against her, firm and secure, a steadying force in a world which wishes to throw her off-balance, and Manon cannot help but be grateful. She would speak her thoughts to Aelin, but the camp is full of eagerly listening ears, any of which could be waiting to find some sign of misdemeanour that they could report back to her grandmother. Besides, she knows that Aelin is aware already. </p><p>“Is this the tent?” Aelin indicates, thumb out pointing towards the tent with red stripes painted about the bottom. Manon nods, words having deserted her, and together they enter the tent, the gentle flap of the cloth closing upon them the only thing that indicates that Manon’s armour can finally be let loose. </p><p>Manon breathes a heavy sigh as she settles herself down upon her bedroll, already reaching to strip away her blood-red cloak and armour. She is stopped, however, by warm hands upon hers, gently moving her hands away from the fastenings of her armour. Aelin is slow, methodical as she works at Manon’s breastplate, fingers steady and reliable against Manon’s side. When she eventually tugs the breastplate away, Manon heaves another sigh, relief coming to her at last. </p><p>Her hands at the bare skin of Manon’s collarbone are warm, but not feverishly hot, loosening the ties that hold it in place and stripping the cloak bought with blood away from Manon’s body. She folds it gently and lays it aside, even though Manon wants her to throw it outside to be whipped by snow-filled winds. </p><p>Without the armour, without the cloak, she feels naked, exposed, and resists the urge to curl up into herself with legs pulled up to her chest. She reminds herself that the hands that touch her are gentle, and kind, and loving, everything that her grandmother’s were not. Manon’s eyes flick upwards to settle on Aelin’s face, the same childish doubt still in her mind as she reaches upwards, the nails retracted and unthreatening.</p><p>Aelin takes the hand that Manon offers, lifting it to her mouth, and brushes a soft kiss across Manon’s reddened, cold knuckles, her lips warm. When she opens her eyes again, she meets Manon’s stare, murmurs “I know that this is purely political. Just—allow me to do this for you. Let me be kind to you, for it seems that few others have.”</p><p>Had Manon spoken, she might have said something entirely different. Perhaps she would have asked Aelin not to stop. Perhaps she would have pressed a finger over Aelin’s lips and told her to quieten before she pulled Aelin’s face down, down, down, and pressed their lips together. Perhaps she would have done neither of those things, and only turned away, hiding the weight of all the words that she wanted to say but could not. </p><p>As it stands, though, Manon simply nods and tugs off her boots, the soles muddied from the trudge through the camp. She sets them aside, and tries to close her eyes against Aelin’s always-there gaze, but still she sees those blue-and-gold eyes burning even when the rest of her vision goes to darkness. There is a blanket atop her, but she derives little warmth from it, the cold of the mountains intrinsic to her bones by now.</p><p>“I hope you find peace in your dreams,” she hears Aelin whisper as she feels a hand being brushed lightly along her shoulder, her hair being finger-combed and smoothed away from her face. The soft gestures affection almost move her to tears, but still she does not cry. Her tears are rare, and only for herself to know of. </p><p>If Manon dreams when eventually she slips beneath the deep waters of sleep, she does not know of it, but she hopes that in her dreams things are better. It seems a foolish hope, though. </p><p>Evening has swept in to the mountains when she finally wakes, and Aelin’s face is golden and shadowed in the light of a single candle. Manon’s eyelids flicker open, and she sees the loneliness writ plain to see across Aelin’s expression, the homesickness thick enough to choke. </p><p>She struggles to sit up, pushing away the blanket. The sounds she make disturb Aelin’s wistful staring, and warm hands assist her in getting out of bed.</p><p>Manon is growing weaker indeed, it seems, if she requires assistance to leave her bed.</p><p>Wordlessly, Aelin hands her the breastplate and cloak, and helps Manon to fasten them, her hands insistent upon helping. For her part, Manon lets Aelin do this for her. It feels as if she is being armed, as if Aelin’s touch adds another layer of protection. She cannot say that she does not appreciate it.</p><p>“There,” Aelin taps at her chin. “You look all a fearsome witch-queen again.”</p><p><em>Witch-queen</em>. The words stir up something in Manon that she had not known of previously, another missing piece slotting into position in the great mystery that is Manon’s life. </p><p>“Witch-queen,” she murmurs to herself, says it again to enjoy the feel of the words on her tongue. The sense of <em>rightness</em> that they spur in her.</p><p>Aelin frowns at her, looking askew. “Hm?”</p><p>Manon gives her a performative smile, and finds that it comes easier this time. “It is no worry.” She stands, pulls on her boots again, and offers her arm out for Aelin to take. “The time has come for you to meet my grandmother. The Blackbeak Matron.”</p><p>Saying those words brings up a whirlpool of fear and terror that Manon must be careful to navigate around, lest she fall in and sink to the dark, deep end of it.</p><p>Aelin takes her arm, sliding their arms together, and offers Manon a smile. She pushes a piece of stray hair behind Manon’s ear, the gesture almost painfully intimate. “Yes, let’s.”</p><p>Manon nods, a lump beginning to grow within her throat, but she chokes it down.</p><p>“Very well,” she says stiffly, and leads Aelin from the tent.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>kudos and comments are Heavily Appreciated and thank you for reading !!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. MANON</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aelin is brought to meet the Matron, and several things are revealed.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>69 KUDOS.... neat !</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Manon does her best to stiffen herself and turn her face to stern ice as she leaves the tent with Aelin following behind, yet still she fears that the mask she has placed over herself will turn loose and fall away, revealing how small and pathetically scared she is behind it. Her blood-red hood has been left down, cloak billowing in the cool mountain wind behind her, and the camp has turned to night, lit by flickering, inconstant torches as the witches trail towards where the matron of the Blackbeak clan holds her court. </p><p>Behind her, Aelin makes little noise apart from the crunch of her boots over the soil, remaining quiet and dignified. She takes a small moment to appreciate the sheer strength of her wife’s spirit as they walk, for she has so far held steady through her entire pattern of life being disrupted and thrown head-first into her new life as one of the Blackbeak clan. Manon worries that she may never be able to fully tell her how invaluable her silent stability is.</p><p>She knows the way to her grandmother’s hearth by heart now, but it is not knowledge that she enjoys. Every time, Manon feels her shoulders hunch automatically and her head starting to hang downwards, as if she is a sinner performing repentance. Every time, she forces herself to act brave and stern, as unemotional and cold-hearted as the steel of the sword at her side. And every time, it kills Manon inside, bit by bit. </p><p>The comfort of Aelin’s hand laced in hers would be welcoming, but Manon forces herself to deny the idea and forcibly put it out of her head. Instead, she murmurs for Aelin to stay close as the warm flicker of the hearth grows nearer. Tension hangs heavy and coiled in the air as she approaches, the figures of the clan’s witches clustered around the hearth becoming a solid, terrifying reality rather than a shadow that hangs on the horizon, distant and away from her.</p><p>Asterin is already waiting there for her, but her face gives away little information about the Matron’s mood this night. As ever, she remains stoic and stiff-faced, a trait that Manon appreciates dearly, but one that does not assist when the anxious energy inside her has grown to a sharp high. A quick nod at Asterin, a glance towards Sorrel, darkness laid across most of Sorrel’s body. There are no false smiles with them. </p><p>“Follow my lead. Do exactly as I say, and nothing else.” Manon’s tone is sharp, indeed, but not without reason. It would wither away an irreplaceable part of her soul—a part that Manon had not known she possessed, before Aelin—if her grandmother found her new-wed wife...<em>lacking</em> in any respect. </p><p>Aelin’s nod is quick, nervous, and Manon sends a silent prayer to whatever god may be out there and listening for Aelin to be safe. She would already throw herself into the path of any weapon meant for Aelin, Manon realises, but—she does not want to die, if she can help it. Dying for her wife would be a fine and noble thing, she considers as she readies herself to approach her grandmother, but Manon wants more than merely death in Aelin’s arms. She wants something that she has never dared to ask for before, yet she thinks she could ask for it from Aelin.</p><p>A grim smile is pasted onto her face, cheeks already tingling with a phantom pain, and Manon approaches the Matron of the Blackbeak clan with a bowed head and falsely humble demeanour. Her eyes remain levelled on the ground, to all the world the obedient, bloodthirsty dog of her grandmother.</p><p>She is so much more than that, so much more than the sword she was beaten into, yet still she must keep up this mask that jars at her more and more each day. And it hurts, but hurting is something that she is well-accustomed to. </p><p>Manon bows to her, arm wrapped tight around her waist, fingers gripping hard enough to dig in. She bows to her, because there is no other option than to bow. </p><p>Behind her, she can see through her peripheral vision that Aelin is doing the same, long, golden hair falling from amid her hood, and it makes her stand up just a little taller as she rises, set her shoulders back with a confidence that is not quite forced. It’s not rebellion, far from it, but it is <em>something</em>, and that is more than simply letting it—letting <em>her</em>—happen. </p><p>The crags and lines of the Matron’s face are shadowed, at times flickeringly and inconsistently lit, but she is never fully in the light. The darkness gives her a kind of power, changes her from ordinary to a creature out of tales of old. Yet Manon does not allow herself to be cowed, striding towards her with a hand gripping the hilt of her sword and blood-red cloak streaming out in the wind behind her. </p><p>Her grandmother’s smile is not kind, but then, neither of them are. “So you have returned to us, granddaughter, with your pretty bride in tow.”</p><p>In response, Manon simply nods, her knuckles whitening as she closes her hand further around the leather-wrapped hilt of her sword. Aelin stays quiet behind her, as if waiting for instructions. </p><p>“Come forwards, girl.” The Matron extends a gnarled hand towards Aelin, some ancient and twisted thing calling forth the golden, fiery beacon of youth that is Aelin. Manon wants to reach forwards, grab Aelin’s hand to stop her from going any further towards her grandmother, but her arm stays stubbornly locked in place. </p><p>Aelin stands there, before the Blackbeak Matron, and does not falter. She raises her arms to slide the hood away from her head, shakes her hair free, glinting gold in the darkness of the night, and Manon’s heart lifts like the steady beats of Abraxos’s wings against the wind. </p><p>“Ahh, yes.” The hissing breath of her snakelike voice between her teeth is enough to crawl inside one’s head and cause nightmares. Still Aelin remains steady, her hair wavering in the wind and curling down her back. “The princess of Terrasen. You are more than what you seem to be on first glance, I feel.” </p><p>Aelin’s jaw is stiff, her teeth gritted, as Manon’s grandmother reaches forwards, grips her chin in a firm hold, and stares deep into Manon’s wife’s eyes. </p><p><em>Manon’s</em> wife. <em>Manon’s</em> Aelin, and no-one else’s. Jealousy sparks in her, and Manon almost steps forwards, almost draws her sword against her grandmother.</p><p>Asterin’s eyes are trained on her when she makes the mistake of looking behind her, firmly forcing Manon to stop and calm herself. She makes herself breathe and see sense. It would be foolish to act on her jealousy, even more foolish to raise her hand against the Blackbeak Matron. She seems to be turning more and more foolish by the moment. </p><p>“I do not know what you mean,” Aelin answers with a quavering voice. All falseness has fled her face, leaving only vague terror that is plain to see. </p><p>“Curious. No-one has told you?”</p><p>Aelin struggles away from the Matron’s vicelike grip, tearing her chin free violently. “Told me of <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“Why, your fae magic, of course.” </p><p>Her face slackens, turning to shock, and she starts to back away, shaking her head in disbelief. “No, no, that cannot be correct. You are wrong!” </p><p>“So you truly did not know.” The firelight flickers to illuminate her face, and Manon glimpses the detachment in her grandmother’s expression. She is beyond and distant from all feeling, more like the mountains around them than a living soul. </p><p>Her wife turns her back to Manon’s grandmother, slides her hood back over her head to overshadow her expression. Manon is shocked at how static her grandmother is at that: if it was another who turned their back, she would shudder to think of the consequences for them. But it is Aelin, and she is something else. </p><p>The matron cackles, the noise malicious and triumphant. “Take as much time as you need to deal with it, princess. There is nowhere to go.” She waves a languid hand, directing Aelin away. Immediately, her wife turns tail and runs, cloak flaring out behind her as the shadows of the night fall over her, make her disappear. </p><p>“Grandmother.” Manon tries her hardest to keep down all the spiteful words welling up to the surface of her tongue as she speaks. “May I go to comfort her?” </p><p>“You may, Blackbeak, but do not outstay your leave.” </p><p>“My thanks.” She bows again, her teeth gritted and nails digging sharply into her hip. Trying to retain as much dignity as possible, she turns and steps away, hurrying when she is freed from the gaze of her grandmother’s eyes boring into her back, as if they could see into her very soul. </p><p>Manon sees the edge of Aelin’s cloak slip behind a tent, and she speeds up her pace further, not quite running but close to it. She catches up to Aelin quickly, grabbing her wrist to halt her.</p><p>With her hood thrown back over her shoulders, the tears down Aelin’s cheeks glisten under the stars and the silvery light of the moon. Wild, untamed emotion rises in Manon, and she has to swallow to force the lump in her throat away.</p><p>At first there are no words exchanged, then Manon breathes “Oh, <em>Aelin</em>,” and the silence melts away. She curls her arms around Aelin’s neck, hugging her as if she is a child, and Aelin stiffens for a moment before letting Manon hug her.</p><p>“I hate your grandmother,” Aelin half-spits, half-laughs into Manon’s shoulder. “Despise her, even.”</p><p>Manon threads her fingers through the hair at the scruff of Aelin’s neck, twisting the strands together, while she tries to think of a reply. With her grandmother, nothing is as simple as merely hate and love: Manon must reckon with her grandmother’s warm eyes on her as she succeeded and with the hard reality of the memories that she wants to forget so badly but cannot. </p><p>“I think you are right to hate her,” Manon says, finally. “She does not improve on you with time, either.”</p><p>Aelin laughs, a small huff of warm breath that stirs a pool of molten longing in Manon. “I had guessed that. She seems a horrible old hag.”</p><p>This time, she makes Manon laugh. “Your guess is right.”</p><p>There is a long, drawn-out, poignant pause that is spent with Manon in Aelin’s arms and Aelin in Manon’s arms. Manon’s voice is soft when she speaks again, barely a murmur. “What do you think of—what my grandmother told you?”</p><p>At that, Aelin stiffens and withdraws from the hug. “I’m... not ready to think about that yet. As I am not ready to think about a lot of things about this.”</p><p>Manon nods by way of response, folding her arms together. Another pause between them, brimming with words waiting to be said.</p><p>Teeth worry at Aelin’s lip, and Manon feels her eyes drawn to it, fixated on the indent left in her bottom lip. She wants to be the one to make that indent, wants to be the one whose teeth are worrying at Aelin’s lower lip—</p><p>Manon forces those thoughts out of her head, for they will bring nothing but danger to her.</p><p>Aelin looks up from the ground, teeth still insistent at her bottom lip. “I know that it’s strictly political between us. That the first evening meant nothing.”</p><p>The waters that this conversation has drifted into are dangerous, but Manon loves the danger of it, loves the risk that she runs by allowing it to continue. “I still stand by what I told you then.”</p><p>“But... I can’t stop thinking of it, sometimes.” Aelin confesses. “About all of it, but mainly how you made me forget. Nobody’s ever given that gift to me. Nobody except you.”</p><p>A foolish breath catches in Manon’s throat. She does not reply, but she is sure that the gleam of her golden eyes betrays her eagerness.</p><p>“And... I was wondering if you could do that again. Make me forget about everything, even if it is only for a little while.</p><p>Despite her best instincts, despite herself, despite everything, Manon finds herself replying one word: “Yes.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry for the self-promo here but i wrote <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28925310">a lysandra/aelin fic</a> if any of u guys want to check it out!! if it’s not in ur ballpark then that’s fine, but for those of you who just want more gay throne of glass content... i have made it my mission to cover that!</p><p>as always, u lot r the best readers. stay gay af until next time !!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. MANON</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Manon tries to make Aelin forget.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry for the wait on this one! ive just been doing daensa week 2021 and my time has mostly been taken up by that. still not abandoning this fic though</p><p>this chapter does have sexual content in it, so do skip it if that’s not what you’re here for. if you do read, please be warned for various blood + fire metaphors, and references to past kills that manon has done. </p><p>(i hc that blackbeaks + witches get particularly Intense during sex and this chapter is from manon’s POV so it is quite hard-core... this isn’t particularly kinky though because, medieval times)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The tent is initially cold, but soon it grows warmer with promise, with flushing cheeks and hot breath on bared skin. When they’re like this, it has all the joy of heaven yet all the fiery heat of hell, each glance that they share smouldering and setting afire. Tonight the desire that had not been stamped out all the way flares back up, every touch tingling long after it has disappeared. </p><p>Aelin’s kisses are hungry, devouring, and Manon kisses back with the self-same hunger. She burns with a need that only Aelin beneath her can satisfy, lust in her veins rather than blood. And when Aelin bites at the bared column of her neck, teeth not sharp enough to draw blood but threatening to, it spurs something in her that must be sated. </p><p>Burning with pure <em>want</em>, Manon pushes Aelin down onto the bedroll, not caring about the state it will be left in afterwards. Aelin’s back falls onto the ground ungracefully yet she smiles still. Her forehead glistens with sweat and she is warm underneath Manon. </p><p>Her lips meet Aelin’s, gentler than the first kiss, as she raises herself up over Aelin, her legs wrapped around Aelin’s hips. All of her senses are afire with <em>Aelin</em>, and Manon must have her now. </p><p>When the kiss is broken, the heat is only lost for a moment before Aelin starts to tug at the laces of her cloak, pulling it away efficiently. She arches her back beneath Manon to remove her cloak fully, making her neck stand out, and Manon glimpses small marks that she had left upon the skin. </p><p>Patience is something that she has utterly forgotten, and she leans down again to press her lips against Aelin’s neck, open-mouthed kisses scattered down her neck. Aelin’s hand moves to dig into Manon’s hair, not quite pulling but holding her close instead. She can feel Aelin’s heart like thunder in her chest where they are pressed together, and it only drives her on further. </p><p>Manon is too far deep in to all of this, to Aelin’s embrace, to stop now, and she only falls deeper, tugging away Aelin’s shirt with eager fingers to bare the golden skin beneath. Her nails run over hot skin and Aelin gasps at the touch.</p><p>“What do you want me to do to you, again?” Manon asks, holding herself up over Aelin on one elbow and trailing her fingers over Aelin’s lips. She feels Aelin’s breath catch in her throat, a thrill running through her. Like lightning in the sky, bright and bold and electrifying, but she will not hurt Aelin with it.</p><p>Aelin looks directly into Manon’s eyes, the gold ring around her pupils seeming almost to burn. “Make me forget, Manon,” she murmurs softly, raising herself upwards on her elbows to bring her lips closer to Manon’s. Her eyes slip closed, and her lips are right there, and Manon surges forwards to kiss her yet again, harder this time as she presses Aelin back down into the bedroll.</p><p>She does not think that she will ever manage to be sated on Aelin, but she may as well try to satisfy herself with what she can take. And Aelin is beneath her, warm and wanting her, seemingly despite the agreement that it would be purely political. A foolish agreement, now that Manon thinks of it more clearly, yet one she is trapped in, all the same. </p><p>“I said, <em>make me forget</em>,” Aelin snaps at her, but the harsh tone is tempered by the softness of her hands over Manon’s shoulders, pulling away the bloodied-red cloak and running over her dark tunic. She strips away Manon’s tunic and underclothes, until all that is left is a thin, pale undershirt, and raises a brow at her. “Well? Get on with it.” </p><p>Again, like the waves crashing back onto the shore with the tide, Manon kisses Aelin, and this time she follows through on her promise, stealing her hand under Aelin’s breeches. Aelin presses her hips up against Manon’s hand eagerly, wanting. </p><p>“Come on, Blackbeak.” Despite Aelin’s taunting tone, her cheeks are reddened and flushed already. “I could fuck myself better than you can at the moment.” </p><p>Manon cocks an interested brow, enjoying the passion and snark that comes out in Aelin when they are in private. When she lets the facade of the perfect princess down. “Well, if you really think so, I can always let you do so.” </p><p>“Hellas, <em>no</em>.” </p><p>“Then hush and let me fuck you.” The <em>fuck </em>sounds dirty and unfamiliar on Manon’s tongue yet she rather enjoys the feel of it. She unlaces Aelin’s breeches, allowing her to manoeuvre her hand more easily. A mischievous thought comes into her head, and she says it without thinking. “Unless, of course, you want me to hush you.”</p><p>Aelin’s eyes go wide, and for a moment Manon fears that she has insulted her. It is only a moment, though, before Aelin mutters in return, “Seems you’re wasting an awful lot of time, <em>Blackbeak</em>.” </p><p>Manon hears the <em>Blackbeak</em>, a reminder that no matter who she tries to be, she will always be what her grandmother made her to be. Yet, instead of staying silent as she normally would, she replies and thrusts her fingers <em>into</em> Aelin angrily. “It’s Manon,” she hisses, and sets about fucking Aelin in earnest. </p><p>She feels as if she has been set afire by Aelin, and now she must burn herself out. Each thrust only adds to the lust burning inside of her, and she closes her eyes, relying only on what she can feel to bring Aelin off. </p><p>“Oh,” Aelin sighs, and Manon feels Aelin’s body starting to go limp beneath her as she approaches her climax. Manon opens her eyes to watch as Aelin starts to shatter into pieces under her fingers, and pulls them out of her just as Aelin’s climax washes over her. </p><p>Aelin crescendoes at last with a groan that Manon swallows with her mouth, open and devouring, as Αelin crests the wave and starts to come back down to earth, like a fire slowly burning out. Afterwards, Manon rolls over with her back to Aelin and takes herself apart with fingers alone, quickly and efficiently. She finds herself thinking of how Aelin had done the same to her with her mouth only a few days ago. She does not ask for Aelin’s help, though, and Aelin does not offer. </p><p>How can she still be longing for someone who had been underneath her only mere moments ago? </p><p>“Aelin,” she whispers, her voice barely a flicker in the wind. “<em>Aelin</em>.” </p><p>Besides her, Aelin does not wake, sleeping with her eyes closed to the world. And Manon, somehow, feels even lonelier than before.</p><p>It takes a long time before sleep even begins to come to Manon, and thus she gets up, tucking a blanket back over Aelin’s sleeping body for warmth: she knows all too well how cold night in the Ruhnn Mountains may be. Manon clothes herself in the darkness, buckling a dagger around her  arm for protection and sneaks out without waking Aelin. </p><p>The air is far colder outside the tent than inside and for a moment Manon almost considers returning. Yet she is kept away by thoughts of her and Aelin, and the distance that she has placed so cruelly between them. She wishes that she could ask one of her Thirteen for counsel, but in truth, this is a problem of her own creation, and one that she must solve herself. </p><p>Manon is not used to apologies; after all, there is little room for apologies when you have already slit the witch’s throat and she is lying at your feet. She cannot simply kill Aelin to solve this problem, though, for then the alliance would collapse. And besides, she does not think she could harm Aelin at all — the other woman has become important to her, in a way that very few have ever been. </p><p>So she must think, and find a way to tell Aelin that she no longer wishes for their marriage to be purely political. Yet even confessing her deepest wants to Aelin shall be difficult, as well. Manon is sure that her grandmother would punish her if it turned out that she truly cared for her wife, for Blackbeak should have little emotion other than what they are allowed leave to feel. </p><p>She continues walking through the camp until she reaches the edge of it, where she settles upon a rock and faces the valleys beneath her. The valleys have always scared her, even after she had learned to fly. It always seems like they are waiting for her to fall into the darkness that lurks there. </p><p>Others have fallen, this Manon knows all too well; she has been told tales of witches who descended and never returned, and witches whose wyverns had plummeted downwards, taking their riders with them. In the daylight, Manon laughs them off, completely devoid of fear, yet in the nighttime the fear she had felt when she was far younger creeps back again. </p><p>Perhaps Asterin could talk some sense into her, with her steady influence that Manon depends on so much, talk her away from all the childish fears that haunt her still. But Asterin is not here with her, and Aelin sleeps in their tent unaware of where Manon has gone to. So Manon is left to face the abyss of the valleys below alone. </p><p>Manon forces herself to look up and into the sky, away from the valleys threatening to devour her mind, even though her neck starts to hurt quickly. There are so many stars glittering in the sky that she knows not the names of, but she wants to learn their names. The same way that she wants to learn whether there is a life beyond merely killing and bloodshed. Beyond her grandmother’s pervasive control over her life. </p><p>The same way that Aelin makes her feel, she realises. </p><p>And Manon finds herself longing for something that she cannot have, yet feels like it is within her reach. A life away from war and blood, a life spent with Aelin as her wife. A life that is happy, at long last. </p><p>Perhaps the stars are mocking her dreams as foolish, or perhaps they pity her. Whatever they may think of her is indecipherable, but Manon hopes that one day, she will gaze at them from a place where she is not her grandmother’s puppet. Where she can tell Aelin how she truly feels, without the constraints of politics in the way.</p><p>“You’re a fool,” she tells herself as she sits there with her gaze dipping to the tips of the mountains. The dawn is still far away, but the sky is already beginning to lighten over the mountains. </p><p>By rights, Manon should be heading back to her tent to return to her wife, but she stays sitting there a while longer, waiting for some great shift to occur in her thoughts. Such a thing does not happen, though, and Manon gets up with her lips pressed together grimly and walks back through the Blackbeak tank to her tent, musing upon the stars and the matter of Aelin. </p><p>Aelin’s eyes are still closed and her cheek is pressed against one of her hands. A shiver runs through her wife’s body, and Manon glances around the tent for something warm to place over her. Eventually, she decides upon her own blood-red cloak to cover Aelin, though it stings her heart to place something with such a bloody history over such a comparatively innocent woman. </p><p>She sheds silent tears, then, though she is not quite sure who they are for. </p><p>Comfort is unnecessary when she settles down to sleep, for she is used to sleeping in rough places and far more used to the cold of the Ruhnn Mountains than Aelin is, having spent a great part of her life here. Manon lays down before Aelin, stealing some measure of warmth from Aelin’s body heat. </p><p>Manon is only beginning to feel sleep pressing down on her when Aelin reaches a bared arm out from underneath her layers of blankets and wraps it around Manon’s waist. She startles, expecting it to be an enemy, but calms when she realises it is only Aelin. </p><p>“Come here,” Aelin mutters onto the back of Manon’s neck, and although she protests a little when Aelin covers both herself and Manon with the cloak and blanket, she relaxes a little knowing that Aelin is behind her, and that they are safe. In their own small way, they are <em>safe</em>. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>would any of you guys be interested in a manon/aelin red white &amp; royal blue au? sound off in the comments if you’re interested! </p><p>thank you for all the love so far 💕</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. AELIN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They duel, and Aelin faces a new challenge.</p><p>(accidentally posted this chapter early RIP me)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw/cws: violence (hence the warning change), fire </p><p>note: since sjm doesn’t go into much detail at all about the history of the Galathynius family, helya galathynius is 100% made up and so is what she did. she’s also aelin’s grandmother here as sjm never gave aelin one, and the sister to orlon galathynius (aelin’s great-uncle).</p><p>im not going to spoil anything more but... pretty eventful chapter this time!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aelin awakens with her arms around Manon and her head against Manon’s shoulder. The light streaming in to the tent makes a strip of Manon’s hair appear light-gold under the sun, her usually sharp features softened by sleep. </p><p>She forces herself to keep still, lest she move and wake Manon up. Dawn is cold in the mountains, though, Aelin is quickly learning, and she cannot resist the shivers wracking through her. Still she tries to remain motionless as she rests her head behind Manon’s on a bundled-up piece of cloth. Their makeshift bed together could not be more different to her luxurious one back in Orynth, but Manon’s presence there makes it worthwhile. </p><p>All that is left for her to do is wait for Manon to wake, and thus she does. It is impossible for her to sleep, but she can stay awake and try to protect Manon like this. </p><p>The sun is beginning to hearken towards its peak when Manon blinks herself free of sleep and scrambles to sit upwards, loosening Aelin’s grip on her torso. Aelin strokes over her shoulder, the dark fabric of her tunic separating their bare skin, to soothe her, for Manon often wakes in a defensive and agitated state. </p><p>“You’re safe. It is only me here,” Aelin murmurs soothingly, and Manon calms herself, breathing returning to normal, heart-rate slowing down to rest. </p><p>“Good morning,” Manon replies, voice gentle, and slips out of Aelin’s arms. “I’m — sorry, Aelin. I thought I would — ”</p><p>Aelin throws aside her blankets and stands, pure in her nudity. “It does not matter.” And then she turns shy, arm over her chest to cover herself. “Um. Where did my clothes end up?” </p><p>Manon points at various spaces around the room, and Aelin hurries to each of them in turn, picking up her clothes and tugging them on. Once she is finally clothed, she pulls on her boots, still slightly soaked from the melting snow, and then her cloak, sliding her arms through the slit sleeves. At last she stands in front of Manon, readied. </p><p>Neither of them have spoken of last night’s events yet, and the crushing silence makes Aelin doubt whether they will ever talk of them. </p><p>Manon nods at her in a small gesture of her approval. “Good. There is work that we must do, still, and I do not wish to waste a moment.” With that, she turns smartly on her heel and leaves the tent, walking at a rapid pace. Swearing under her breath, Aelin hurries out after her.</p><p>She follows Manon through the corridors between the tents, heart beating faster with nervousness and anticipation. She knows nothing of what they are to do today, and cannot afford to lose track of Manon, lest she never find her again in the chaos of the Blackbeak camp.</p><p>The place where Manon slows is somewhere that she does not know, full of loud noises and open-fronted tents with products laid out upon them. She catches up with Manon easily now that she has slowed down, and walks beside her through what seems to be the market, eyeing up the various things on sale. </p><p>Back in Orynth, Aelin had loved buying beautiful things, loved the atmosphere of the market. Yet, in the mountains with the Blackbeak clan, she likes it not. Each smile seems a leer, each pair of eyes that looks over her seems ill-intentioned. And so she stays close to Manon, hoping that her wife’s aura of menace shall protect her.</p><p>They stop at one particularly large tent, and slip inside. Candle-flames flicker and make shadows seem to loom dramatically against the cloth of the tent, sending chills down Aelin’s spine. Manon, however, is undaunted, striding to the woman who seems to be the owner and running her hands over the sword before selecting one and handing a pouch of coins to the woman to buy it. </p><p>The woman gives Manon a cheery smile, distorted by the lighting, and takes the sword to prepare for buying. </p><p>“Go wait outside,” Manon mutters to Aelin, and she does not have the strength to resist. Outside, the air is clear and cold, and the market seems a little less terrifying compared to the interior of the tent. She rubs her bare hands together for warmth, her knuckles turned ruddy and reddened by the chill. </p><p>Her lonely wait only lasts a short while before Manon is back out with a bundle in her hands and returning to Aelin</p><p>“You’re not tough enough yet,” Manon tells her in a stern tone as she hands over the sword, wrapped in a woven cloth to prevent Aelin from cutting herself on the blade’s edge. “There is still the softness of the princess you used to be in you. And in the mountains, among the Blackbeaks, there is no room for softness.” </p><p>The sword is well-balanced, from what Aelin knows of swords, though it is slightly longer than she finds comfortable. Unlike the blades that she was given back in Orynth, this one is bereft of decoration and light in her hands. She experiments with the sword, trying to remember how she had been taught by her father. </p><p>“Don’t practice here,” Manon slides her hand over Aelin’s, pressing their fingers together on the grip of the sword, to stop her. “It would be too easy for an accident to happen. Come, I know of a lonely place.” </p><p>Aelin follows Manon, for what choice does she have? </p><p>As Manon leads her away from the main Blackbeak camp, the winds grow stronger, and Aelin shivers involuntarily despite the fur-lined cloak she wears. The cold of the Ruhnn Mountains is a quietly insidious thing, sneaking into one’s bones and nestling there, finding a home under her skin. And though she should be used to it, she still finds herself waking up frozen-cold in the mornings with makeshift blankets above her. </p><p>She doesn’t dare to move her new sword — a gift from Manon, she knows, one that could be taken away as easily as it had been given — and instead holds it carefully as if it could break in moments, both hands wrapped around the blanket that covers it. </p><p>Manon stops in a clear, wide-open space, the ground snow-covered and pale white, and withdraws her own shortsword. For one foolish, terrifying moment, Aelin believes that she means to kill her, but Manon assuages her fears with a sharp command: “Draw your sword, princess.” </p><p>Aelin does so, setting the blanket aside and gripping the hilt with one hand initially, then two, for she is not strong enough to use only a single hand. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear so it will not get in her eyes as she fights, she takes up a remembered fighting stance and faces Manon. </p><p>“Good. Now, Aelin, remember — this is only practice, and training. I do not strike to kill, and neither will you.” </p><p>Her heart rabbits in her chest. “I understand.” </p><p>A flicker of a smile crosses Manon’s lips. “Then, we shall begin.” And then, she attacks Aelin, her blade shining silver in the snow-sunlight and her eyes flashing golden. </p><p>At first, it is all Aelin can do to merely defend herself against Manon, this maelstrom of a woman that she’s bound her life to, yet the fight evens out and they are fighting as equals, though Manon still has an advantage over her. Their blades clash, upwards, downwards, and Aelin grits her teeth as her muscles burn with exertion.</p><p>Although it was supposed to be merely training and practice, soon Aelin feels real hurt and anger thrumming through her. Manon flicks her attempt at a strike away easily, without even looking to deflect it, and anger turns her already-flushed face ruddy, makes her feel like there is fire burrowing just beneath her skin. </p><p>She lunges forwards, trying to push past Manon’s defences. The witch is quicker, lighter and stronger, in contrast to Aelin’s sole advantage of anger. Manon deflects her first efforts easily, yet struggles more against her last ones. </p><p>Darting back, Aelin glances at Manon, meeting her gaze. She bites down upon her lip and runs headlong to attack Manon. </p><p>Although the muscles of her arm ache, she ignores the pain and concentrates on the fight. Their blades clash hard against one another and she grits her teeth as she attempts to get through Manon’s defence. </p><p>This had passed practice fighting long ago: now it is a real duel, both of them struggling to come out on top. And Aelin will not let herself lose. She <em>cannot</em>. </p><p>Manon slides her other hand to grasp the hilt of her sword, the only indication that she is weakening. Seeing an advantage, Aelin brings up her blade from where it is locked into place against Manon’s and then down to cross over Manon’s blade, narrowly avoiding cutting through the fabric of Manon’s breeches as she does so. </p><p>Now the advantage is Aelin’s, for Manon’s sword is trapped under hers. She decides that her next move will be to end this duel quickly and decisively, not wanting to fight Manon overmuch, and raises the tip of her sword to Manon’s bare throat. </p><p>Then there’s a sharp tip pressing into her chest, threatening to cut through her shirt and into her skin. Manon smiles at her, and there is more wickedness in her smile then over any smile she’s given to Aelin before. </p><p>Still, though, Aelin refuses to lose. With anger in her heart, she grabs the blade against her chest with one hand, not caring whether it cuts her, and pushes it downwards, away from her. </p><p>Manon gasps. “What did you do?” she breathes, pointing down to the edge of her blade. Aelin glances downwards, expecting little, and is shocked to see fire rippling over the tip. </p><p>“Put it out,” Aelin gasps, pointing at a thicker layer of snow. Manon duly plunges the blade into the snow and they both watch from above, breath held in their throat, waiting for the fire to be extinguished. In the back of her mind, she knows that it was her who set the blade afire and that now she will have to deal with the repercussions. Yet, right now, she is only focused on the immediate problem. </p><p>Grasping the hilt and tugging it free from the snow, Manon glands downwards at the tip of her sword to check. Although part of it still bubbles with molten metal, the great majority of it has kept its shape and survived the burst of fire — <em>Aelin’s</em> burst of fire — still intact. </p><p>“The fire was weak,” Manon observes, sliding the tip of her finger across the sword’s tip. “And not particularly skilfully wielded. This was controlled purely by emotion. While it may have seemed alarming at first, there was little true power behind it.” </p><p>Aelin frowns. “Magic left this land ten years ago. How do you know so much of it?” </p><p>Manon only smiles and cups her cheek with one hand, her nails still long and deadly at the tips of her fingers, yet Aelin knows that Manon will not hurt her. “I am far older than you, and have seen the magic this continent held in its full power with mine own eyes. I saw,” she says, moving her face closer to Aelin’s, close enough that her breath ghosts against Aelin’s lips, “Helya Galathynius burn a whole army to ash and cinders in moments.”</p><p>Aelin can vaguely remember seeing Helya in her last years of life, stern-faced and with a sour look about her. Even grey and haggard as she had been, she still carried herself with the dignity and strength of a warrior. </p><p>Her breath comes out as a curl of pale smoke, rising into the air above them. “Your grandmother... she was right, then. About me.”</p><p>Slowly, Manon nods. “She was right, indeed. You carry the gift given to the Galathynius family by Brannon: the gift of fire. And now we must decide what to do about it.” </p><p>“Can’t I simply stay here? With you?” Aelin asks. She knows that she must surely sound pathetic, but she is not willing to give her attempt at living with her wife up yet.</p><p>Shaking her head, sorrowfully, Manon replies, “We cannot carry on like this, now that you have magic. Your powers must be trained and forged into shape, else you will present a danger to us here.”</p><p>“I don’t want to be a danger,” whispers Aelin, tears welling up.</p><p>“It is lucky, then, that I know of a place where magic has not died.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29787996">the red white &amp; royal blue au is now up!! read by clicking this link</a>
</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>have 10 points if you can guess where the title came from</p><p>kudos and comments make my day so consider leaving some if you enjoyed</p></blockquote></div></div>
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